E603 discussion board

Woman Warrior

2009-05-04T23:29:00.000-07:00

After finishing Kingston’s novel, I realize that I have never come to grips with the fact that I have been fortunate not to have faced the difficulties of immigration, among other things. I noticed a lot of similarities between Kingston and me, but I had to put everything in the perspective that she was growing up facing a culture that was foreign to her and her family, while I was born an assimilated member. The most striking of these was of Kingston’s reticence in class and to people in general, “A dumbness—a shame—still cracks my voice in two, even when I want to say ‘hello.’” (165) I know exactly what she is talking about—that cracking “dumbness”—when I try to squeak out a greeting or question in what I manufacture to be an anxious situation. As if one cue with my life, she notes that “A telephone call makes my throat bleed and takes up that day’s courage.” (165) I can’t begin to explain how much I despised making telephone calls to strangers when I was younger. But Kingston literally hit the nail on the head and described my anxiety regarding telecommunication perfectly.

It’s like we’re the same person![1]

The difference, however, is that Kingston’s shyness and anxiety is compounded by the fact that she grew up not knowing her culture and feeling foreign to those around her. I did not. Facing this reality puts my own struggle with communication in perspective. I did not have to try to be anything; I was already normal. Further, in her anecdote about how her mother forced her to ask the drugstore clerks to give her candy, Kingston says that her mother “thought she had the Druggist Ghosts a lesson in good manners.” (171) Once again, the awkward way in which she described herself doing this made me realize how difficult it would have been for me to be placed into a foreign setting: I am shy enough already. I would never be able to face the type of discrimination that immigrants did. Making Kingston’s plight even more apparent was her enjoyment of her extended bedstay when she got sick. “It was the best year and a half of my life. Nothing happened.” (182) Ask any of my friends and they will tell you how much I love doing absolutely nothing but hang around, sleep, eat, and watch tv. It is perhaps my favorite past time. But I do this to escape (far more than necessary, however) the hectic reality of being a student. Kingston did it because she didn’t have to face the difficulties of life in the United States.

I guess I realized that I was born and stayed in place that I could always call home. Kingston and other Asian immigrants did not have this luxury, stating that they felt they “don’t belong anywhere” (184) when facing the threat of deportation, feeling that they were being tricked by immigration services to turn themselves in. That statement reminded me very much of my freshman experience as a whole, now coming to close and leaving me in doubt more than ever of where it is that I belong. Also, it reminded me of a particular scene in Garden State.

Check 1:25 into this trailer.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=u82n0e1mgmQ

Feeling lost himself, Zach Braff says “You know that point in your life when you realize the house you grew up in isn’t really your home anymore? That idea of home is gone.” (Garden State) For once, I do feel, however microcosmically, that I am in libmo, a place of now home. But unlike the immigrants Kingston shows us, I don’t have to try to be something I am not. Moon Orchid’s estranged husband says that he can’t take her back because he is “living like an American.” (153) I will thank my stars that I have only had to transition from Dallasite to Austinite, from high schooler to college kid, and not Chinese to American.

[1]http://daniel9012.files.wordpress.com/2008/11/talkingstory.gif

The Child Inside

2009-03-25T20:41:00.000-07:00

The summer of 1996 was perhaps the most influential season of my life. It was that June that I became aware of the game of baseball when, for my friend’s 6th birthday, I sat on the first row behind the dugout of a Texas Rangers baseball game. As if knowing that I was a potential devotee to the sport, the home team recorded a then franchise record twenty something runs, and first basemen Will Clark emerged as my first hero after smashing what I remember being a 1,000,000 foot homerun into the second deck above right field. A boyish captivation with the majesty of baseball emerged on that night, later blossoming into the most defining attribute of my growing up.

The Rangers treated me nicely that summer, winning the American League West, and earning their first playoff berth in franchise history. On October 1, 1996, they squared off against the New York Yankees in their first ever postseason game. I remember exactly what happened in that game—where I was sitting, what I was eating, and looking back on it, how the events that took place on that night would cast a mold over the rest of my childhood. Watching the game with my brother and dad, the game started slowly when Juan Gonzalez sent a ball approximately six inches inside the left field foul-poll and two feet over the fence in the top of the fourth inning. Controversially deemed a homerun, my otherwise stoic father exploded out of his chair, drunk off the mirth of a hometown success, leaped and cackled about the room, and shouted, “Juan Gonzalez just hit a homerun in the playoffs!” Apparently unfazed by the excitement, I shot my father with a murderous glare in silent disapproval of his enthusiasm for the occurrence, instantaneously decapitating the boy who lived inside him, who crazed over the game of baseball. With just that look of disinterest from his sons, his zeal faded away.

Though my father would teach me everything he knew about the game that he loved, I never again saw such ecstasy in him because a sage stoicism had set in. Little did I know that against the warm background of that October sky, I had committed the most heinous of subtle crimes against my father—shunning the little boy inside him and killing a part of his personality. The memory of that night has been with me since it happened, but it was not until I got to college that I recognized the importance of its lessons. Coddled in a middle and high school environment where boys were free to be boys, I did not realize the significance of the whimsically playful and sensitive spirit natural to me because I had nothing else to compare it to, no parameters or boundaries, and I never had to put on the mask that every boy wears in front of a girl. But after coming to UT and to Plan II especially (seeing as how it is over 60% female), immediate and necessary adaptations were made, and I now realize how boyish I am and why I choose to be so. Sometimes immature, sometimes sensitive, but often energetic, always playful, and always looking for a ball and a person to play catch.

Perhaps the most striking change in college that has made me realize more about my nature is that a smaller percentage of people in the honors quad care about sports compared to my experience in high school. I have found myself itching for someone to talk with about the Stars’ playoff chances, craving a group of guys to play football with, and needing ten other players to form a soccer team. I have supplemented my free afternoons with games of ball and other general, boyish shenanigans. More times than not, every Tuesday and Thursday afternoon between the hours of 2 and 3:30, I can be found jumping around the quad, trying nothing more than to see how high I can get, or if I can clear the bushes by the Andrews steps. Something about the feeling of physical activity, of tossing a ball back and forth, of the wind in my face as I sprint, of my acceleration towards Earth after jumping from a step—something about all of these actions mindlessly and inexplicably make me happy.

But, alas, there is more to life, and more to me, than the capricious levity that I have described. Despite my passion for individualism, I realize that there is a time and place, and the child inside of me can only exist in certain situations. The hardest part of my college experience has been to quiet the calling of the boy inside, beckoning me to let him out and play. Society and academia have little room for 19-year-old boys. Particularly in the area of relationships have I had to send the child back to his room, into the labyrinth of my heart, in order to be mature enough to handle the problems that old teenagers create. But simultaneously, the boy has allowed me to view the world from the unscathed lens of innocence. Others have found his sensitivity and unselfishness endearing, and when I let him out, I have been able to forge some of the strongest friendships that I have ever had.

Academically, the boy inside affects me in the same way. At times, I find it almost impossible to work—children indeed have the worst time management. Midterms, papers, and exams are the bane of the child that sends him scurrying back to his room when there is no time to play. But as with relationships, the boy lets me be free. Recently, I have realized my love of the liberal arts and my distaste for the surgical exactitude of certain classes that leave a calculated, electric taste, like that of a battery. There is an ambience of hazard about the liberal arts that encourages the foolhardy, inquisitive mind to explore the depths of the human condition. Only with a delighted ignorance can a mind stomach the dark, depraved findings on the nature of man, and only with the gaudy dreams of a child can one hope to supplant this melancholy with a resolution greater than himself.

So it is because of the boy that I revel in the intellectual freedom of the liberal arts. I have even begun to question anyone’s desire to study any subject outside the liberal arts, without the intent of supplementation. Pure science majors confound me. And even more—business majors! Fittingly, was I to ask such students what their motivation is, I think I would find several answers centered around the word “career.” What does a boy care about a career? He doesn’t. And thus, I have arrived at the biggest change I have undergone since I came to UT. For a time in high school—a long time—I was professionally motivated. Hard work led to good grades which led to a better college which led to a better career potential. It is the simple path that many young people are influenced by. The strange thing is, then, that even in that cookie-cutter life plan, nuggets of truth can be found. I think that is why I do not look down on myself for once viewing education and even my life like that. Though it may sound contradictory, I do not look down on people who are still motivated by that; I am merely stumped because for the first time in my life, I really think I have figured something out. If not about life in general, I have learned it about myself. I no longer find that as motivation because it is too one-dimensional. It helped me get good grades in high school. It also helped me last semester. But it only helped with grades. Recently, and I mean very recently, I have realized that this is no longer all that I want. Our readings about ahimsa, Buddhism, and Jainism have led to me to put together everything we have talked about all year. And, as if in an epiphany that has been gradually occurring since I was born, I realize that I want to become a better person: I want to become something greater than myself. Those are vaguely worded goals because I have no idea what they mean exactly—I don’t think anyone does. For once, the OED is no help. I have lived so long only satisfying myself with the pride I could derive from working hard, making good grades, and other assorted achievements. But I realize now that all of those years I was missing something, and landing a six-figure job straight out of undergrad isn’t going to fill the void. And it is not that I ever thought that a career and money alone would solve my problems. But until now, I have never faced the reality that landing that job was all I could hope for, unless I found a new paradigm. Perhaps a greater form of compassion or some Western ahimsa is what I am trying to create—I don’t know. But only a child could dream such possibilities.

The Idiot Performance Reponse

2009-03-11T17:21:00.001-07:00

My initial reaction to The Idiot was that I found myself analyzing the play in the same way that I analyze books for any literature class. I was entirely drawn in by the play, but because the matter of the story was so dense and introspective, I found it hard to focus on the performance itself, aside from the storyline and messages that it was trying to convey. In that sense, I found that the play did indeed reach me. Having read Dostoevsky before (although not this particular selection), I found myself relating once again to the bitter melancholy that flavors most of his pieces. The topics of the depravity of mankind, atheism, nihilism and religion, and social movement are all riveting discussions among themselves in an English class, but while stimulating, they are mind-drudgingly heavy, and ones that I try to reserve to English class alone. On that note, I found the play a little boring. I admit I was drawn in, but on a Saturday night, I am usually in the mood for something fun and intellectually shallow, whereas in this situation I was placed into the opposite.
Regardless, the show left me with emotions of melancholy and bitterness, like all great works of literature do. Perhaps the most striking difference between reading about this topics was seeing them acted out before my eyes. This was the most rewarding part of this performance from my perspective. Rather than forging the “as if” in my brain, I could see how the often futile nature of life affected the individual characters, and my mind was able to think about other things, not having to create an image for myself. The most stirring of these images were the expressions on Myshkin’s face. He represented the good man struggling through the tides of depravity and forlornness that affect that vast reaches of mankind. His face was constantly fighting back a childish smile, but when he faced the decisions that grew out of his multiple loves, the hard and cold nature of life was particularly evident in his crushed and defeated smile, yearning for a life in which all could be as good as he.
On that same note, I think the actor that played Myshkin stood out above the rest. In the beginning of the play, it seemed like he was forcing some sort of foolish ignorance of the world and its ways, but by the end of the play I realized that that is exactly what he was trying to convey: a confused, helpless, sick man trying to make good out of a stirring situation. After him, I think the actress that played Nastasya Filippovna stood out as the 2nd best in the show to me. The way she conveyed her character as a woman trying to make something better out of a life she knew she had lost any semblance of goodness.
I don’t know that I would recommend this play to my friend’s if they were looking for something to be entertained by. However, I would recommend this to someone in a dark, introspective mood, searching for higher answers. Disjointly, if there was one “problem” I had with the play, it was that it was very hard to keep track of the very Russian names, and so I found myself often confused by who was who.

Western, Social Ahimsa

2009-03-11T14:56:00.000-07:00

Over the winter break, I found myself making a pledge to “not do mean things” to other people anymore. This promise to myself was based on the realization that almost all of the non-academic problems I dealt with in the first semester would have been almost entirely prevented had I made, for lack of a better word, nicer decisions.

Perhaps this nugget of kindergarten indeed transcends the age at which it is learned.[1]

Upon reading the second part of Siddhartha and the article on Ahimsa, I have realized that in order to achieve this “niceness” I have to learn the sense of spirituality that guides the novel’s protagnist, and all Buddhists and Jains in general. In describing the fundamental practice behind ahimsa, the article reads, “In the regeneration and divinization of man, the first step is to eliminate his beastly nature. The predominant trait in beasts is cruelty” (X224). Reading this, I realized that my desires to belittle, poke fun at, or chastise others are forms of cruelty, however righteous I might view them to be, and at that, are beastly. Taking this farther, it is true that “Man attains peace by injuring no living creature. There is one religion – the religion of love, of peace” (X224). This statement speaks to the universal spirituality that exists in all man. With or without faith or religion, by doing good or nice things, we feel better about ourselves—we are at peace.

However cliche, being at peace with oneself is one of the few attainable ideals in life.[2]

Reading the article further, I began to realize that Ahimsa is something I should strive for. No, this is not my vegetarian coming out party, but there are innumerable opportunities that I miss out on when it comes to practicing non-injury to other humans. The idea is not even far-fetched. Moreover, it is simply an extension of the pledge I made over the break, “It is extremely difficult to control such thoughts from the very beginning without having recourse to control of the body and speech first” (X226). But once the immediate urges of the body are contained, ahimsa can seep through the soul, and I can achieve my goal.

This section of Siddhartha parallels this topic perfectly. Unlike the first section in which Siddhartha seemed to be disconnected himself from the world around him, we now see the compassionate side of him. In fact, once being around Kamala and noticing the power of love, “He was happy, for he felt the need to be among people” (Hesse 50). His desire to feel love shows through in his quest to please Kamala, whom he goes out of his way to please, practicing only fasting, waiting, and thinking. Upon returning from the tasks which Kamala sent him out to do, Siddhartha comments that, “Most people, Kamala, are like a falling leaf that is blown and is turning around through the air, wavering and tumbling to the ground. But others, a few, are like stars: they go on a fixed course, no wind reaches them, and in themselves they have their law and their direction” (Hesse 70). I found this to be particularly applicaple to my promise to myself. Despite having made this pledge, I have found my mind taking advantage of my body and indeed injuring those around me. I am that falling leaf, and in order to practice some form of ahimsa I must become the star, applying the law of non-injury to at least the social part of my life.
I can take Siddhartha’s written words to Kamaswami to heart: “Writing is good, thinking is better. Intelligence is good, but patience is better” (Hesse 63).

Look before you leap: an aphorism for the wise, even Siddhartha.[3]

The article on ahimsa eventually discusses that the virtue as an ideal is unattainable, that “You have to destroy life in order to live” (X227). But as with all religions, compromises are to be made to support the human condition (after all, Jesus did die for us). Even in describing the life of a merchant, “Everyone takes, everyone gives, such is life” (Hesse 62).

Perhaps once my form of western-social-ahimsa succeeds, my problems will lessen, and I will be happier. And one step closer to Nirvana.

[1]http://z.about.com/d/crossstitch/1/7/7/Q/-/-/golden-rule.jpg
[2]http://www.thewip.net/contributors/peace-sign.jpg
[3]http://www.wordsellinc.com/wp-content/uploads/word-sell-cliff-diver.jpg

Buddhism

2009-03-09T20:16:00.000-07:00

I do not relate to Eastern religion. That is it.

In the description of how Govinda Idolized Siddhartha, Hesse writes about how selfless and pleasing Siddhartha was to all those around him. He concludes, however, that Siddhartha didn’t bring himself joy; he didn’t please himself” (Hesse 7). Buddhism seems to seek a different form of asceticism than the Jains. Rather than practicing ahimsa out of compassion, Buddhists seek complete disconnection with the world, in a completely opposite manner, based on the self alone. Ironically, Govinda, though deferential to Siddhartha, points out this void of compassion when he realizes that Siddhartha has indeed left him, “’Siddartha!’ he exclaimed in a lamenting voice” (Hesse 32). One of his closest followers “laments” Siddhartha’s departure because achieving Nirvana is a singular act, perhaps a selfish one. But this could be recognition of the futility of life otherwise—an faith rooted in the same convolutions as western religions, but more extreme in its means and ends. When his father confronts Siddhartha about his perpetual meditation, he states “You will die, Siddhartha.” To which he replies, “I will die” (Hesse 13). I think Siddhartha’s blunt concession in his retort is perhaps the fundamental reason behind his somewhat peculiar goals. I suppose that I find them peculiar because, in all of life’s futility, why would I want to sever my connection with the one aspect of humanity that keeps me sane: companionship (or, more specifically, love). But once again, I find the answer in the father’s compliance, “If you have found blessedness in the woods, then come and teach me how to be blessed. If you find disappointment, then return once more and let us once again sacrifice to the gods together” (Hesse 14). Siddhartha’s choice is obvious, and it is one mystery that must be chalked up to the perplexing intricacies of the human heart and where it may lead its host, hence my choosing of this song.

Listen To Your Heart (Techno) - DHT

In his pursuing the cessation of existence with the tangible world, Siddhartha garners many questions from Govinda about how it might be possible or even desirable. His explanation is such, “It is flight from one’s being, it’s a brief escape out of the agony of self-existence, it’s a momentary anesthetic against the pain and meaninglessness of life” (Hesse 19). I find this obsession with disconnectivity entirely strange, but even among people of his culture, Siddhartha had different goals, “I don’t have any desire to walk on water. Let the old Samanas satisfy themselves with such trucks” (Hesse 26). Once Govinda and Siddhartha come upon the Buddha praying, they note that “His calm face was neither happy nor sad, it seemed to smile quietly and inwardly” (Hesse 29). The Buddha is described almost to have achieved a state of ignorance of the world around him, its futility and existence. I question my notion that which the Buddhist seeks is a state of blissful ignorance, but further in the text, I find no answer. In a revealing conversation with the Buddha, Siddhartha asks the revered one about his one uncertainty with his teachings: the disconnection of the ultimate goal from all life. Siddhartha exclaims, “But there is one thing which these lucid and honorable teachings do not contain: they do not contain the mystery of what the exalted one alone among hundreds of thousands has experienced for himself” (Heese 35). I find it empty, almost, that no explanation is available for the state of nirvana. I do believe that it is achievable for the most devout, but to what end? To a severance with the rest of the world. From my western perspective, that does not seem desirable.

There is something beautiful in the sense of companionship--something I do not want to relinquish. [1]

In “The Light of Asia” we see a different side to Buddhism than in the first part of Hesse’s novel. In this article, the sense of mercy and compassion of the Buddha is discussed, whereas it seems almost nonexistent in Hesse. However, the motivation behind Siddhartha’s goals in Hesse becomes more evident in this piece. After a long list describing the beauty of life, Arnold writes that “All things spoke peace and plenty, and the Prince saw and rejoiced. But, looking deep, he saw the thorns which grow upon this rose of life: How the swart peasant sweated for his wage, toiling for leave to live; and how he urged the great-eyed oxen through the flaming hours, goading their velvet flanks” (X241). In this case, the Buddha observes nothing but the toilsome cycle of punishment and agony that one being inflicts upon another, and his goals are better explained. But even then, to singularly displace oneself from the rest of the world, to achieve a state of Nirvana—these both seem far too extreme for me. There is little splendor in the imperfection of the cycle of mankind’s relationship to himself and to nature, but there is a well of joy to be gained from compassion, sympathy, love, and affection.

[1]http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_UOC3TT81i8k/RZqfPQtlBFI/AAAAAAAAB-U/Wlf1xKKIzEQ/s400/Companionship.bmp

East versus West

2009-03-04T17:00:00.000-08:00

Perhaps the most telling example of difference between Western and Eastern thought on the subject of animal rights is given by Kipling. He describes an instance of the “Oriental tender mercy” in which a man feeds a tiger pieces of his own flesh. Kipling writes, “This may be heroic, but like many other illustrious examples of Oriental goodness, it is also absurd, and so remote from every possibility of ordinary life and conduct as to exert no practical influence as a lesson.” (X251)

The gap between east and west extends to all aspects of life. [1]

The choice of the word “absurd” is interesting considering how that is the absolute standard for many in Asia. This difference is derived from the fact that Western religions worship an intangible deity, whereas eastern faiths like Jainism and Hinduism look to animals to find symbols of power and beauty. In “Jainism and Ecology, we see a description of the Jainist mindset and how their practice of ahimsa (defined as absolute nonviolence) has a direct relation to their reverence for animals. Perhaps the most famous person to practice nonviolence is Mahatma Gandhi, “who combined love and nonviolence”(X231). Gandhi describes the virtue of ahimsa as a “means” and continues to say “In its positive form, ahimsa means the largest love, greatest charity”(X231). I must disagree with Gandhi. The keyword, here, however, is “positive” ahimsa. Simply, ahimsa for the sake of ahimsa is not love—it is a practice of nonviolence and nothing more. I would correct him to say that love (and compassion) for animals is the means and ahimsa follows as the end. From West to East, I think the lack of love because of different symbols of reverence accounts for Kipling referring to Oriental practices as “absurd.”

I understand better now our practice of "love channeling." It is the basis of all compassion.[2]

The article then begins to discuss the cause of the ecological crisis from a Jainist perspective as a lack of spirituality and perpetuation of greed. Lily de Silva said, “We have to understand that pollution in the environment has been caused because there has been psychological pollution within ourselves” (X232). The “psychological pollution within ourselves” is the same as the absence of Love and reverence for animals in western thought. At some point, concern for the environment, for animals, and for all living things must come from the heart. From a western perspective, however, deeming this “pollution” seems somewhat condescending. In discussing the apparent idealism and hints of absurdity that taints Jainism from a western eye, the article discusses a situation when a disciple raises a concern about the natural tendency of human survival to cause suffering on some living things. Lord Mahavira’s response is simply, “If you are aware of all of your actions, and are careful about what you do in relation to other living things, you will develop spirituality and be in perfect harmony with the natural world” (X234). How is this at all a valid response to the disciple’s statement? It seems like a shirking of reality, revealing the unattainable idealism inherent in Jainism. While I respect the practice, Kipling hits the nail on the head: it is almost absurd to expect a wide range of humans to practice such ahimsa. Upon researching, as per Wikipedia, less than 1% of the Indian population (let alone the world’s) is Jain.

In the article “Man, Culture and Animals in India,” the institutions of the pinjrapole and goshala are described as places of sanctuary, so to speak, for cows. According to the article, the words “ahimsa paramo dharma” are written above the gateways to all pinjrapoles. Translating to “ahimsa is the greatest of religions,” according to the article, “In this aphorism is summed up the entire raison d’etre of pinjrapoles, for it is the extension of ahimsa and the related concept of jiv-daya (compassion for life) to embrace all animal life that accounts for the presence of the institutions in Inida today” (X266). Just like in Gandhi’s words, the virtue of ahimsa can only exist with a certain love or compassion that must inherent in one’s heart. Otherwise, ahimsa exists for ahimsa alone, futilely, as I said before. Perhaps the reason this love exists in Asian culture is because of the reverence shown toward animals, rather than believing in the intangible powers of theism. In discussing the reason behind the worship of animals, the article explains that “reverence for the bull as a symbol of masculinity and power” and “the cow, too, emerges as the symbol of a female deity” (X272). These animals are referred to as symbols because that is as closed to a deity as they can possibly come. I think that Jain, Hindu, and other Indian religious practices exist because of some faith that the followers have in the animal, just as those in the West have a faith in God. Either way, I call it a faith because it takes a certain feeling in the heart to submit to this sort of spirituality, and not everyone’s heart is in the same place.

The more I think about the topics in the class, the more I realize that, no matter what facts and opnions are discussed, what you feel in your heart is all that you are capable of. [3]

Reading this blog entry again, I realize how western my train of thought is. But I guess that makes sense.

[1]http://listverse.com/wp-content/uploads/2008/08/east-vs-west.jpg
[2]http://www.katyelliott.com/blog/uploaded_images/love_print-791839.jpg
[3]http://www.creativeartspaceforkids.org/store/images/Art-from-the-Heart-2.jpg

Hunting

2009-03-02T18:38:00.000-08:00

As I read the required sections tonight, I arrived at the dichotomy of interminable deliberation that has placed my heart in the same conflict with itself, a war that has been waged since the beginning of last semester. Finding no answers to the complexities of the topics we discuss and trudging only deeper in the melancholic labyrinth of human emotion, I have found it easiest and most necessary to maintain my status quo.

More than a band: a state of equilibrium. [1]

On the one hand, in James Turner’s Reckoning the Beast, I am convinced that it is the natural way of things for man to be above beast. I do not intend this to sound cruel. In describing the treatment of animals in preindustrial England, Turner writes that, “these bloodied animals were probably not victims of cruelty. Cruelty implies a desire to inflict pain.”[X170C] I then contrast this with the words of Reverend Dr. Humphrey Primatt, “We may pretend to what religion we please; but Cruelty is atheism. We may make our boast of Christianity; but Cruelty is infidelity. We may trust to our orthodoxy; but cruelty is the worst of heresies.”[X170G] Turner mentions this quotation because Primatt was the foremost authority on the advancement of animal humanities in 18th century western thought. However, Turner first wrote that the animals were not “victims” of cruelty because the men who committed those acts did not know any better. It is ironic, then, to defend mankind in light of ignorance when he indeed is supposed to be the rational one, but I think our collective empathy has indeed blossomed only once scientific discoveries concerning the similarities between men an animals were made. Perhaps Reverend Dr. Primatt was making a fuss over nothing, overstating the assumption that maltreatment of animals is necessarily “cruelty.” But the most provocative quotation from this chapter was Turner’s description of this supposed lack of empathy: “No generalized humanitarianism evoked fellow feeling with the suffereings of the next village, much less the plight of total strangers fifty miles away. People who walked hand-in-hand with plague, famine, and dying children could ill afford to squander their affective capital on useless emotion.”[X170C] Presently, we do not face the same “plague and famine” of that time, but the latter statement rings the bell of priority. Genocide and AIDS in Africa, a collapsing economy in the US, interminable uneasiness regarding extremists in the Middle East, among other global problems beg the question of whether animal humanities deserves so much attention. Even once scientific discovery lead to the knowledge that man and beast did not differ so much, Turner mentions that, “It did animals little good to be recognized as distant cousins if man would not lift a hand to help closer relatives.”[X170D]. I have long been a proponent of the phrase “Listen to your heart.” And ultimately, you cannot forge a passion for animal humanities unless you have it in you. That is, no matter what you think is wrong or right, something within you must drive a passion to fix things, and in my case, I do not know that I possess it.

After reading that, I thought it was natural for me not to show concern for animal humanities. After all, we have ourselves to worry about. [1]

But George Orwell’s trial with the elephant struck a deeper chord: he mentioned the subject of my P1—individualism. In describing his situation, Orwell noted that he had no desire to kill the elephant that had caused havoc, only that he had to appease the crowd of 2000 that amassed around him: “The people expected it of me and I had got to do it; I could feel their two thousand wills pressing me forward, irresistibly.”[X221] This sentence immediately struck me as similar to one that I wrote in P3: “The “exposure” that I mention was not some sort of newfound physical contact with “people of color,” but rather a compression of my immediate needs and ideologies under the force of tens of thousands of new and different people on this campus. This is not to say my passion of individuality has collapsed, but I no longer assume that my ideas and viewpoints are right.” While it is not spot on, in that section I talk about the protection of an individual and not letting outside influences affect me too greatly. But George Orwell did. Mentioning how he had to conform to the natives’ wishes, “He wears a mask, and his face grows to fit it.”[X221] Orwell’s plight was that the crowd following him found it the natural process of things that the elephant get shot—much like my thoughts after reading turner that it is natural for man to be above animals, despite what “cruelties” he might see. But it is here that I realize that this assumption is conformity and thus an action that stifles what I once declared to be my greatest passion—individuality. The British imperialism forced Orwell to stick to the stereotype, to play the role of what he felt he was expected to and not what he wanted to.

Punk rock or not, conforming is good—only when you want it to happen.[2]

And so, I am left once again at intersection I have found so familiar this year: not knowing what to think. But, what is this? Poetry gives me an answer, an absolute, an ultimatum. Looking up at the vulture in orbit of his self, Robinson Jeffers convinces me that I will never hunt: “But how beautiful he looked, gliding down on those great sails; how beautiful he looked, veering away in the sea-light over the precipice. I tell you solemnly that I was sorry to have disappointed him. To be eaten by that beak and become a part of him, to share those wings and those eyes—what a sublime end of one’s body.”[X216] The destruction of beauty like that will never strike me as a sport—no matter how natural it seems.

[1]http://www.raw-tcsd.com/status%20quo263.jpg
[2]http://blog.chrisworfolk.com/wp-content/uploads/2006/10/foodchain.gif
[3]http://www.forrightorwrong.net/Shirt%20Pics/conformity-zoom.jpg

A God-fearing people

2009-02-25T18:29:00.000-08:00

The View - Modest Mouse

The chorus to the song goes: “As life gets longer, awful feels softer, and it feels pretty soft to me. And if it takes shit to make bliss, well I feel pretty blissfully."[1] Isaac Brock, the vocalist and writer for the band, having endured drug addiction, a single, abusive, and neglecting mother and lacking any semblance of what I will call “childhood” has born the brunt of it. Life is not beautiful without pain, and in that case, he states “he would rather never ever even see beauty again.” By all definitions, Isaac Brock was full of fear.

Though Isaac Brock is not quite a Christian, his lyrics reflect the struggles of life that we all face.[2]

It was, by Aristotle’s definition, not until 9th grade that I became an intellectual—that I realized the perpetual fear that we all must live in. In my freshman year Ancient and Medieval History and Religion class, I asked the question, rhetorically, “Why did God create evil?” I asked that question because it reflects the futility, the fear, the discord, and the misery that exists in life. We were exploring the conception of world religions, and the struggles that the “framers” (the title does not do them justice) of these religions faced. Like Hopkins writes in God's Grandeur, “The world is charged with the Grandeur of God.”[3] So, let me ask it again, why did God create evil—or in that case, why did he create anything bad?

Life would be less uneasy if little bastards weren't running around.[4]

The best explanation that can be given to an unanswerable question can be found in Blake's The Shepherd: “He is watchful while they are in peace, For they know when their shepherd is nigh.”[5] The higher being knows of something that the lower does not. This is the quintessence of fear itself: we don’t fear until we have perspective. Knowing of something greater, the shepherd watches over the herd to protect them, and his power is felt. Further, Blake writes in On Another's Sorrow, “Can I see another’s woe, And not be in sorrow too?”[6] Lessons can be learned from fear, and the primary of these is compassion. Like Dana wrote, compassion is derived from fear. Compassion is, according to the OED, very similar to sympathy, and where does the term sympathy appear? The sympathetic imagination. We can not help with what we have no experience with. I am taking Fundamentals of Acting this semester, and one of the primary tools for an actor in analyzing a scene is not only identifying an essential action or an objective, but applying what they in the biz call an “As if.” That is, “I am going to act this out, as if that happened to me.” Where “this” refers to the objective in the scene, and “that” refers to a prior event that the actor can draw experience from.

Who would have thought compassion is a form of acting?[7]

In Harrigan’s story, “The Tiger is God,” we see an embodiment of God’s omnipotence in the animal. As an observer of Miguel at the zoo mentioned, “He had an intent to kill.”[8] But Miguel was left there for a reason. Perhaps less than an embodiment, the tiger is a manifestation of God’s goals for mankind. Fear is the most powerful of feelings—one that brings all living things together. Consider it an act of hazing. Fraternities do it, however cruelly, to force an undividing brotherhood among their pledges. Hazing practices like that are forbidden, perhaps because of the authorities using it to play God, so to speak. I will now search for shelter, fearing the almighty hand of God reaching down from the heavens and smiting me for saying that His instilling of fear into all living creatures is an act of hazing, so to speak. That being said, “To what end would we destroy the tiger?”[9] The animal was put here to kill and to inspire fear because of God’s need for us to fear him. Christian, Atheist, or Agnostic, you sure as hell better fear God because regardless of what you believe, there is a psychotic, perpetual inkling of “what if?” that exists in all of our hearts—every single one of us. Like Hopkins writes in Hurrahing in Harvest, "I walk, I lift up, I lift up heart, eyes, Down all that glory in the heavens to glean our savior."[12] If nothing else, that fear exists because of our lack of understanding, our fear of the unknown and our mystification with the glory of the sky, space, and heavens above. Indeed, “The Tiger is God,”[10] because we need something to derive our fear and compassion from. So, Tiger in Blake's The Tiger, “Did he who make the lamb make thee?”[11]

Yes.

[1]http://www.lyricsondemand.com/soundtracks/o/oclyrics/theviewlyrics.html
[2]http://www.snow.edu/kage/assets/modest_mouse.jpg
[3]Hopkins 164
[4]http://www.satanspace.com/gallery/albums/satanic/dead-evil-dolly-with-pentagram-on-head.jpg
[5]Blake 140
[6]Blake 142
[7]http://www.midatlanticarts.org/images/acting_company.jpg
[8]Harrigan 151
[9]Harrigan 153
[10]Harrigan 155
[11]Blake 146
[12] Hopkins 166

P3

2009-02-11T17:04:00.000-08:00

Like Whitman, “I am large. I contain multitudes.” We all are. Each of us has a unique blend of characteristics acting like an array of colors on a palate then used to adorn the tiles that piece together the vibrant mosaic of the individual. The purples, yellows, and browns mingle and scintillate as the beauty of the creation of the artwork of character swells more so than in the banality of the colors themselves. This mosaic of character then becomes a singular tile to be placed in the greater artistry of society.

The result.

I wrote about my passion for individualism in P1 and expressed its leadership vision in terms of belief in others. Underlying the passion and leadership vision are the virtues of patience, compassion, and emotional intelligence, among others. But the most important virtue of all these is tolerance. Without tolerance, the individual is stifled. Uniqueness and originality must subscribe to whatever an authority will tolerate, and, as if working in reverse order, that authority rips apart the artwork tile by tile, destroying the mosaic and its beauty, leaving only the tawdry remnants of single colors.

Far more mundane than the picture above.

With it, we can remove ourselves from the artwork that we create and observe the harmony of the spectrum of individuals, noting the areas of visual satisfaction and reveling in the splendor of imperfection. With an eye keen to acceptance and tolerant of all styles, mixtures, beliefs, and colors, the brilliance of the individual and the expression of my leadership vision can flourish.

I almost chose to write about tolerance in my P1. I am glad I did not because the more I unfold the vision of my projects, the more logical and real they become. I have always thought of myself as a person particularly tolerant of all types of people, beliefs, and lifestyles. I did grow up in an affluent neighborhood, and I did attend a predominantly white private school. Still, the student body was close to 40% “people of color,” according to the school’s website. I lived in a bubble, but I recognized that I did. Understanding was not something I lacked—rather, it was something preached to me. I grew up very tolerant of the idea of different types of people, but it was not until I came to UT that I had to practice this tolerance as exposure became the reality rather than that “idea.”

The “exposure” that I mention was not some sort of newfound physical contact with “people of color,” but rather a compression of my immediate needs and ideologies under the force of tens of thousands of new and different people on this campus. This is not to say my passion of individuality has collapsed due to this pressure, but I no longer assume that my idea or viewpoint is right. I used to stride with a mental grandiosity, imperial in the mind of Brian that I possessed some righteous image of reality compared to others. Now, I tiptoe in resolute affirmation of my self but with respectful deference to the 65,000 other worldviews that float in the heads of those on campus walking with me.

A perfect example of the need for tolerance is in this course, on the subject of animal rights. When we first began discussing the topic, I took it to be some sort of insult to my intelligence that we had to discuss the rights and feelings of lesser beings. I had a self-righteous opinion on the subject: that I would continue to eat meat and not care and everyone else should because that is the natural way for a species at the top of the food chain.

This was, sadly, my outlook on vegetarianism.

Since then, perturbed by the images of Earthlings and affected by the words of our in-class activists, I have become much more open to the subject. My practice of eating meat has not changed, but my view on the topic has. I think this is a perfect example of virtue that the framers of the university ethics requirement want to instill. Tolerance has allowed me to digest the opinions of others and synthesize useful concepts for myself, not only rounding my knowledge, but also deriving within me a higher standard of ethics for the treatment of animals.

In trying to create a new self, tolerance is synonymous with the willingness to accept facts and opinions. Open-mindedness, one might say. It is a practice that is vital to the liberal arts, as this type of education is one that builds not a particular skill or knowledge, but hammers into us a critical thought process of progressivism. Without an open mind, it is impossible to grasp the values of the liberal arts, and without tolerance, it is impossible to have that open mind. With a mind open and permeable to the infinite influences of our surroundings, tolerance leads not to a science of diffusion letting in only those facts that it wants to, but a permanent equilibrium with the knowledge and ethics of the world. So it is not just the ability to tolerate different opinions in a classroom that underlies the acceptance of each individual, but also the ability to tolerate lifestyles, religious beliefs, and worldviews.

Perhaps the most telling event regarding my capacity for tolerance is my rapidly developing relationship with one of my closest friends. He is my antithesis. Our lifestyles, hobbies, and academic interests intersect only at our similar tastes in music. He recycles everything possible and eats organic food. I stuff my face with processed chicken and discard most items into the garbage. Transcending political ideology, he is liberal, and I am conservative. But the most striking difference is that he is bisexual, and I am not.

His influence has shattered paradigms that I once considered to be indestructible bulwarks of my personality, constructed to weather the opposing viewpoints of my enemies and to endure the constant battering of idealism that I wanted no part in. I began sorting plastics and papers and removed bottle caps deemed unworthy of reuse. I have discovered a fondness of banana chips, vegetable crisps, and herbal teas. My perspective on relationships has changed from trying to entertain ad nauseam to showing concern for the well being of my friends. But my lifestyle has changed in these ways because I found them to be beneficial and healthy—I could tolerate these differences easily because they were viewpoints I could agree with and understand. Crossing the border of heterosexuality is not, however, something that I can relate to or want to change. This internal skirmish of coming face to face with a lifestyle that seems so foreign to me has been the greatest test of my tolerance. Bisexuality or homosexuality, unlike recycling, is not something that I can begin to practice because it is so remote from my personality. My struggle with this reality has not been difficult. Rather, it has been strange. I do not look down upon him with bigoted eyes, but I am squeamish when the subject comes up: it makes me uncomfortable. That lack of comfort is something that I must eliminate in order to rightfully practice the virtue of tolerance.

A leader is nothing without tolerance. At some point it might seem easiest for leaders to look upon their subjects with a disdainful apathy toward their differences, but those differences are the base colors that create our mosaic. Tolerance is not about ignorance of differences but about celebration of them. The spectrum worldviews occur throughout humanity because of unique life experiences that effect only individuals. Intolerance of these stifles the potential for beauty when every individual casts his or her unique shade on the greater artistry of society.

For my future as a leader, I plan to advance my capacity for tolerance, just as I do everyday confronting the nature of the different people around me—particularly for that of sexuality. Because I cannot feel the same emotions or think in the same paradigm as another does not mean I cannot tolerate the opinions and ideas stemming from those differences. I have found the practice of tolerance to be a battle against the self, perhaps one that muffles the cacophony of my individual against another but creates out of every unique characteristic a series of lyrics that hums in a harmony more beautiful than any note alone. The catch, however, is that every note must be its own, and not a mimicry of another, in order to advance the passion of the individual that spawns this need for tolerance.

Word Count: 1418

Soul Power

2009-02-09T17:50:00.001-08:00

The crux of “Animal Humanities” is that, according to Garrard, “The study of the relations between animals and humans in the humanities is split between philosophical consideration of animal rights and cultural analysis of the representation of animals.” [1] He goes on to make the argument that this “cultural analysis” of animals as beings incapable of reason is not a legitimate reason for their maltreatment. Animals are lesser beings than humans. I think that is painfully obvious even to the most diehard of vegans. Arguments around that do not exist. But that is part of Garrard’s point: just because it can’t reason like a human does not mean that any sentient being should be denied the basic, unalienable rights of ethical treatment.

This thing is too damn cute to torture. [2]

The topic of animal humanities relates in similar ways to both environmentalism and Jainism. Unlike Judaism and Christianity, “The Buddhists and Jains do not depend upon God, but the whole force of their religion is directed to the central truth in every religion that each person needs to remake himself or herself in the image of the divine ideal.” [3] Rather than living life by the mandates of God, Jainists relate to the mandate of the earth, the spirit of life. The religion relates to animal humanities because at heart, both ideas are about fairness. The justification for the spirit and the right to live for all beings—conscious or not, as far as Jains go—is the only way of life. Environmentalism is founded upon a similar ideal, “Environmental ethics, on the other hand, places far less emphasis on the individual organism, but demands moral consideration for inanimate things such as rivers and mountains, assuming pain and suffering to be a part of nature.” [4] While it differs from Jainism in its philosophy that suffering is natural, Environmentalism and Jainism are both spawned from the paradigm of the omnipresence of the earth.

More than God, in many eyes, this object is our source or life.[5]

The inklings of early vegetarianism, outside of the Buddhist and Jainist viewpoints, originated from a similar worldview, “It was linked with two other ideas; the wider of the two forbade all killing and hence opposed murder, strife and war, while at the heart of the philosophy was a belief in metempsychosis, or the transmigration of souls.” [6] Metempsychosis, while not explicitly mentioned in the other passages, is a key statute in the ethos driving all of these paradigms. The soul, rather than the intellect, the brain, or the heart, is responsible for the right of deliverance for all beings. And rightfully so—even according to my view of animal humanities. I am still not a vegetarian—perhaps it is because I believe in the natural pain and suffering of living things—but I believe in the rights of the soul or the spirit of a living being. I think this intrinsic right shows itself in the need for companionship, as Isidore states, “I mean, before they came here I could stand it, being alone in the building. But now it’s changed. You can’t go back, he thought. You can’t go from people to nonpeople.” [7] Loneliness is an interminable, tenacious enemy. The constant struggle amid the self is only exacerbated by the morose lack of juncture, of connection, of companionship between two beings. The compounding dolor of singularity is testament to the ambiance of the soul and the reason for the consideration of all beings, rational or not.

[1]98
[2]http://www.worth1000.com/entries/318000/318081FLNK_w.jpg
[3]96
[4]99-100
[5]http://www.spacetoday.org/images/SolSys/Earth/EarthBlueMarbleWestTerra.jpg
[6]110
[7]Dick, 204

The primitive

2009-02-04T19:46:00.000-08:00

When I consider how much I have evolved from some primitive stage to what I hope resembles an adult stage, the first influence I think of is that of the principle of equilibrium, especially as it applies to economics. The price of some good, for example, adjusts to its point of equilibrium based on the desires of the producers and the consumers. A price too high yields a supply that exceeds a demand. A price too low, vice versa. Using this line of thought, I do not think that “Civilization is so to speak a lack of faith, a human laziness, a willingness to accept the perceptions and decisions of others in place of your own.” [1] Perhaps it is not another’s decision but a mutual decision of the majority. I do not model my living after anyone else, but my living is not so dissimilar to the average college student, I will assume. I admit that the subtle influence of the greater people has impacted me, but I have found no reason to stray orthogonally to that path. Rather, I relish in the supposition that I have achieved (or am perpetually striving to achieve) some level of obliquity that renders me content.

Not quite parallel and not quite orthogonal. A healthy medium, one might say. [2]

At the same time, the primitive is provocative, if not haunting. I think Snyder waxes romantic on the side of the primitive, giving it far too much credit and neglecting many realities that twinkle under my economic, conservatively-colored lens. Apparently, “Something is always eating at the American heart like acid: it is the knowledge of what we have done to our continent, and to the American Indian.” [3] While the butchering and rape of the natives to this country is unsettling, the damage done to the land itself is less so. Especially from an economic standpoint: nature, or the primitive in a general sense, will be preserved once the cost (physical and spiritual) of its destruction exceeds the benefit of its product. Snyder further states that primitive cultures have “knowledge of connection and responsibility which amounts to a spiritual ascesis for the whole community.” [4] At first, I wanted to chastise him for claiming we are responsible for some sort of preservation, but I think we do owe responsibility to nature and I think we are responsible. This responsibility kicks in, once again, when the nature of economics allows, but mankind has more of an appreciation for its primitive that Snyder gives us credit for.

Sometimes I don't think this gets enough credit for what it is capable of. [5]

Speaking economically, Snyder does mention something important that I have neglected so far: “Economics…must learn the rules of the greater realm.”[6] Economy is driven by self-interest, and often the interests of the collective self often conflict with the interests of the whole. It is the principle of equilibrium that we will find some point to balance both of those interests, but it is frighteningly obvious that this point is not ideally located.

After reading Tyler’s entry, I realize possibly the most important aspect of the primitive—companionship. Vegging is kickass and one of my favorite past times. But it does indeed get old after a very short time. Why? Because it is so singular. Sometimes company goes a long way. A close friend or even a stranger can alleviate the pangs of loneliness. Even an android feels the same way, “’You don’t have any friends. You’re a lot worse than I saw you this morning; it’s because—‘ ‘I have friends…Or I had. Seven of them. That was to start with, but now the bounty hunters have had time to get to work.” [7] Though I haven’t explicitly mentioned it, interdependence and coexistence are fundamentals of the human condition, even from an economic viewpoint. These are both facets of emotional intelligence, and thus emotional intelligence is something that an android possesses.

Where would I be without them?

Honestly, I do not yearn for the primitive. Rather, I thrive in this economic setting that I have described, and I do not want it to change. The emotional battles I fight every day—that everyone fights everyday—are sometimes taxing, but I attribute that to the complexities of adulthood and thus a divergence from the primitive. Although I just wrote that I do not want a change to the primitive, I do not deny that perhaps, a change to the primitive would best suit me—all of us.

[1]Gary Snyder, “Poetry and the Primitive: Notes on Poetry as an Ecological Survival Technique,” X52
[2]http://www.postaudio.co.uk/education/acoustics/room_images/oblique.png
[3]Gary Snyder, “Poetry and the Primitive: Notes on Poetry as an Ecological Survival Technique,” X49
[4]Gary Snyder, “Poetry and the Primitive: Notes on Poetry as an Ecological Survival Technique,” X49
[5]http://www.ipmc.cnrs.fr/~duprat/neurophysiology/images/brain2.jpg
[6]Gary Snyder, “Poetry and the Primitive: Notes on Poetry as an Ecological Survival Technique,” X53
[7]Philip K. Dick, Do Androids Dream of Electric Sheep?, 147
[8]http://www2.warnerbros.com/friendstv/img/friends_index.jpg

Who am I?

2009-01-28T17:14:00.000-08:00

I think the catch of this argument is not whether all animals deserve equal consideration, nor that humans should feel sympathy to other species. In fact, the question is of humanity, and how far it should extend. The definition of humanity is, “The character or quality of being humane.” [1] Humane is defined as being “marked by sympathy with and consideration for the needs and distresses of others.”[2]

In the opening of Dick, we see one of the most obvious animalistic traits of the human condition: “I just want to sit here on the bed and stare at the floor.” [3] Iran’s desire to vegetate is a natural response in any living organism, I think. It is instinct, to have the want to do nothing, to shut off, and to be ignorant. I note cows grazing and cats napping—what are they doing? The answer is nothing. Is that not ideal? Perhaps that is what separates humans from all other species—we get too tied up in things.

Looks pretty sweet to me

Yes, I am an animal, I think that is the first and perhaps the only admission I can make. But unless I connect with another animal, I am not going to give a shit about it. Humans, even. Genocide and poverty flood Africa, but I still resist the ebbing tide of pity, pulling me to the other side of the ocean to do something about it. A little girl is kidnapped and found dead in Florida. “Horrible,” I say, but after the brief moment of imagining the same thing happening to someone I know and care about, sympathy escapes me. Selfishness defines the natural way of animals. Selflessness, altruism, sacrifice—all of these inhibit the process of evolution by natural selection and species are left weaker because of it. Derrida writes about his relationship with his cat that, “Nothing can ever take away from me the certainty that what we have here is an existence that refuses to be conceptualized. And a mortal existence, for from the moment that it has a name, its name survives it.”[4] Compassion, sympathy, feelings—these can all exist once a connection has been made. But remotely, this bond cannot exist, and a trans-species gap spans far greater than any ocean.

That is a vast body to cross and one that I won’t.

I think the second admission to make is that I am a bastard. But is that not the human, nay, the animal condition? To be selfish except when selfless actions can make us feel happy? In Dick, Rick remarks that not caring for animals is “a crime and anti-empathetic.”[5] Empathy rather than sympathy is used for a reason, whether or not we are to be defined as animals, we are at least a different species. Sympathy does not apply. We see further in Dick’s work the treatment of a “lesser” being: “After all, if a chickenhead could fathom Latin he would cease to be a chickenhead.” John Isidore is regarded as a “special” because of the “distorted genes which he carried.” [6] Though he is human, his inferiority is microcosmic of the greater chasm between our species and others. I find it a fair criterion that if a species of animal can fathom Latin, then that species should be granted the same rights as ours. But even then, I don’t know that I would feel sympathy for it. Sympathy is defined by, “An affinity between certain things, by virtue of which they are similarly or correspondingly affected by the same influence.”[7] As a human, the similarity is negated. We synthesize emotions from individual experiences. In fact, emotions in the broadest sense are only compared once they are arbitrarily named, so I find it impossible to believe that even among humans some sort of “sympathetic imagination” can exist, let alone from human to cow or dog.

This is a human, yet not one person in this class has a structure exactly like this. As this discrepancy is physical, imagine the emotional discrepancy.

Derrida brings up the argument that this gap is closing as we come to new realizations about ourselves and all animals, “It is all too evident that in the course of the last two centuries these traditional forms of treatment of the animal have been turned upside down by the joint developments of zoological, ethological, biological and genetic forms of knowledge…” [8]. More than anything else, we have realized how close we are to the animal, using the denomination in the broadest since. Our genomes are so similar, in many cases our structures are almost identical, and in all we rely on calories and oxygen (among other things) to get us through the day. But despite this, there is a difference so staggering that we don’t readily identify with the name animal. It is a broader nominal designation that we fall under, but it is not our most distinct. We are animals, but first we are humans. A chimp, for instance, is an animal to us first, and a chimp to us second.

Finally, Bentham asks, “Can they suffer?” They do—we all do. Sometimes the question is not whether the line crosses at the “faculty of discourse,” [9] but whether it is our responsibility to take every modicum of sufferance into account. I don’t think that it is, but then again, I am a bastard.

[1]definition of “humanity”, Oxford English Dictionary, X37
[2]definition of “humane”, Oxford English Dictionary, X36
[3] Philip K. Dick, Do Androids Dream of Electric Sheep?, 7

[4]Jacques Derrida, “The Animal That Therefore I Am (Following),” X25
[5]Philip K. Dick, Do Androids Dream of Electric Sheep?, 13
[6]Philip K. Dick, Do Androids Dream of Electric Sheep?, 19
[7]definition of “sympathy”, Oxford English Dictionary, X43
[8]Jacques Derrida, “The Animal That Therefore I Am (Following),” X30
[9]Jeremy Bentham, “the Principles of Morals and Legislation”, X47

Pictures:
[1]http://www.fondosescritorio.net/wallpapers/Dibujos-Animados/Garfield/Garfield-06.jpg
[2]http://graphics.stanford.edu/courses/cs348b-competition/cs348b-01/ocean_scenes/ocean2.gif
[3]http://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/thumb/2/2a/Human_skeleton_back.svg/350px-Human_skeleton_back.svg.png

Darwin V. Tennyson

2009-01-26T18:08:00.000-08:00

Tears In Heaven - Eric Clapton

I am not a Christian though I was raised one. I am not an atheist because I believe in God. But I am hardly at odds with my faith and my spirituality. I think that because I am so engaged in the stuff of youth that I mostly neglect the topics of religion, of science versus religion, and of spirituality. Deliberation of the struggle has not been absent in the pathos of my mind, but I name the emotion pathos for a very specific reason. I fear the futility of life because of my belief in science, but I refuse to submit to a void of purpose.

[1] A bleak ending, and not one I want to see.

Tennyson’s lyrics pluck a chord on the strings of my heart, and its sound is of dissonance: “Be near me when I fade away,/ To point the term of human strife,/And on the low dark verge of life/The twilight of eternal day.” [2] From his other words, it is clear that Tennyson is a proponent of evolution, but at the same time is a man of faith: “I stretch lame hands of faith, and grope,/And gather dust and chaff, and call/ To what I feel is Lord of all,/ And faintly trust the larger hope.” [3] He acknowledges the fragility of faith in the face of the beast of science but questions the validity of his letting go. Why should we let go of what we believe in, even if science tells us otherwise? It is not always about a belief in the bible or strict adherence to the rigidity of the form of faith, but there exists some ambience of hazard in a birth devoid of spirituality. Tennyson’s plight (and mine) becomes relevant in Kansas’s lyrics, “All we do crumbles to the ground, though we refuse to see. Dust in the Wind. All we are is dust in the wind.” [4] In the absence of some greater faith we are dust, ultimately.

This doesn’t look to appealing for my soul to inhabit for eternity. [5]

But I find solace in this mess. Lionel Stevenson, in his explanation of the struggle of poets like Tennyson, writes, “The intelligent controlling deity succumbed to blind forces functioning mechanically.” [6] I ask, can’t a controlling deity be responsible for and not “succumb to” these forces? Today, a poet faces even graver revelations of science, but I like to think a poet still goes to church. Stevenson further points out the struggle, “And if no god existed, nature was but a vast machine indifferent to the sufferings of living beings.” [7] But still, compassion exists. Everywhere. While science becomes an even more fluent tongue in the modern vernacular, faith is not lacking worldwide.

Compassion is driven by something more than science.
[8]

My solution is such: remain unconscious to the orthogonal. I will always believe in a greater purpose, but not necessarily a particular faith. I do believe in a supreme being, and I always will. At best, you could call me a deist. Or, at least a spiritualized atheist who, though nominally ironic, believes in some sort of god. Something greater does control the waves and particles of this all, but I am not sure what it is. When I listen to Eric Clapton, I refuse to believe that wavelengths, frequencies, and vibrations are responsible for the evocation of emotion, for the spirit that irrevocably exists in the sound. There is something more, and I not only sympathize with but agree with Tennyson’s stance on this sort of spiritual evolutionism. Darwin’s theories are irrefutable, but they do not call for a destruction of the spirit.

[1] http://www.artistic-license-inc.com/b2b/pics/Black_Galaxy_Granite_Tile.jpg
[2] 9
[3] 9
[4]14
[5]http://911research.wtc7.net/wtc/evidence/docs/nt_dust_aerial2c.jpg
[6]Lionel Stevenson, “Darwin among the Poets,” Darwin 653
[7] Lionel Stevenson, “Darwin among the Poets,” Darwin 654
[8]http://www.smhcsf.org/images/img_compassion365b.jpg

2008-11-12T21:13:00.000-08:00

A central theme of this course is multimedia. We practice weekly to achieve smooth integration of verbal and visual rhetoric in order to convey a message more powerful than one without the other. Perhaps the most potent example of this was our viewing of Earthlings. I read the entire screenplay in the anthology without squirming or looking away from the text, but I can barely get through fifteen minutes of the film. I beheld the power of multimedia as my stomach churned and I focused at the bottom corner of the projector trying to ignore the gruesome images on the screen, unable to look away entirely. The reason for this is “’The artistic representation of history,’ Aristotle said, ‘is a more serious pursuit than the exact writing of history, for the art of letters goes to the heart of things.’”[1] When I think of Dobie’s mustangs, I think of my times in the wilderness when I have observed animals in their natural habitat. In my backyard even, I have been entranced by the behavior of ants, squirrels, and owls. There is indeed something about the artistic representation of nature that cannot be read in a text or even watched in a movie. In their natural state, animals are beautiful.

If there is one animal I wish I could see in its natural state, it would be the lion.[2]

Sometimes, I idolize animals. Certain animals, at least, while the knowledge of what is in Earthlings lurks in the back of my mind. They seem so blissfully ignorant, so unaware of the problems in life, yet so passionate and alive at the same time. My dog Jacie is a perfect example.

She is always ready to play.

What makes them beautiful is what makes them natural. Animals don’t worry about news, technological advances, or college. They worry about what is for dinner and when they can reproduce. What a life. Man, though deemed superior by himself, is so troubled, “the rule is simple: the more machinery man gets, the more machined he is.”[3] The advancement of mankind is at a snail’s pace, yet we are entirely concerned with what might be regarded as trivial in the great scheme of things. The more “machined” we get, the less natural we are, and the less beauty there is in our life. On that same note, it can be argued that this is our normal state—to contemplate trivially the goings on of the universe. But that is another argument.

So it becomes that what is natural is beautiful. Dobie’s mustangs remind me of a scene in American Beauty.

[4]

Although the plastic bag is far from an organism, it is beautiful because it is absolutely natural: “Only the sense of being in place gives natural horse or natural man contentment.”[5] Imagine being that bag, that sense of being in place, not caring where you are going, and breathing in the electricity of the air. Had I an ultimate goal, it would be to be like that bag, somehow. But I am human, and it is not that easy.

[1]850
[2]http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_BtMuSjnGcY
[3]844
[4]http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=O3OhrWr5lzk
[5]843

A Compassionate Carnivore?

2008-11-05T20:17:00.003-08:00

As I force myself to confront internally the morality, rationality, and reason behind my consumption of meat and other animal products, I find that the greatest chasm in my mind to cross over is the bridge of the sympathetic imagination. I find it hard enough to extend to other humans. Each of us has a unique past, an original paradigm, and individual constructions. Accounting for the universality of these constructs is the parallelism our nature and the standardization of our creation and genetic makeup. Yet even in this parallelism we can do no better than assume that these constructs are not oblique—we can never really know another.

Much like the obliqueness of each line,
our sympathetic imagination will always be in limbo. [1]

And so, the extension of the sympathetic imagination to those beings we deem animalistic is a much more difficult task. Indeed, “our minds are not bats’ minds.”[2] I do not quote this in order to argue our intellectual superiority to animals. Ironically though, and to the dismay of any animal rights activist, we are, quite literally, above the animals on the food chain. Considering our rather modest physical stature in comparison to some of the earth’s mightiest beasts, most will attribute our position to intellect. Regardless of what stance you want to take, the fact remains: we are meant to eat meat.

This was made for meat.[3]

Elizabeth Costello brings up the next important question, “Do we really understand the universe better than animals do?”[4]. I like to think that rarely has a cow ever contemplated its place in the world, but then again, this convoluted delicacy of the human mind may in fact be a plague more than anything else. As Costello further points out, she is “neither a god nor a beast.”[5] Before I begin to question an animal’s place in the world, I am going to have to start with myself, or, being no god, not pose the question at all.

Perhaps that is exactly why I, and all omnivores alike, continue to consume animals. Given the uncertainty and uneasiness of our own condition, why should the sympathetic imagination be extended to those whom we can’t even communicate with? Arising from this uncertainty is the defensive tactic of ignorance. “We avoid things that might disturb us” not because, in the case of animal rights, we support the torture and slaughter of animals, but because we already have enough to think about.[6] Even further, it is our nature to understand that we have to eat in order to survive, so there exists absolutely no intrinsic stigma to eliminate meat from our diets. Costello draws a parallel between meat-eating and the Holocaust stating that “ignorance may have been a useful survival mechanism, but that is an excuse which, with admirable moral rigour, we refuse to accept.”[7] I disagree with Costello here. In the pointless mass-murder of millions of people to satiate a soul-less dictator, ignorance does remain an unacceptable excuse. But to the billions of people, many of them starving, who need meat for sustenance, ignorance is something I won’t lose sleep over. As Costello’s son points out, her “opinions on animals, animal consciousness and ethical relations with animals are jejune and sentimental.”[8] At some point we have to draw the line of what we are responsible for. To the vast majority, the life of animals that can otherwise foster the survival of humans doesn’t make the cut.

I would eat this steak. But probably not if I saw the cow that it came from.[9]

I have raised chickens before, gathered their eggs, and had them for breakfast. I did this on a weekly basis for an entire year when I was in 4th grade. Never once did I flinch at this process. As an impressionable, blossoming 9 year old, I stole unborn babies from their mothers without a second though of it. Was I a heartless killer? No, I was acting naturally to procure food and turn a profit for my labors. There was nothing wrong with what I did.

I’m going to assume that most animal rights activists are also pro-life.[10]

And finally, I come to compassion. But when it comes to animal rights, what compassion really exists? Let me introduce the doctrine of psychological egoism: it states that all humans act out of self-interest all the time. Altruism does not exist because it is merely a process that can make the performer of the altruistic act feel better about his or herself. Essentially, this is a pseudo-philosophy. It cannot be proven or disproven, as the proof and disproof of it is purely circular. But it begs intriguing questions. Doniger points out that, “Buddhists and Jains cared, like Elizabeth Costello, for individual human salvation, more, really, than they cared for animals.”[11] Further, Coetzee’s novel poses the question whether “vegetarians are really trying to save animals, or only trying to put themselves in a morally superior position to other humans.”[12] The doctrine does not apply just to vegetarians or animal rights activists. But it holds a stake in this debate. So, I ask all those who are vegetarians and/or support animal rights: do you do it because you truly feel compassionate and care for animals that you will never see, never connect with, never talk to? Or do you do it because it helps you sleep at night? I do not pose this question to degrade your stance or question your morality. I pose it because it is the reason why no one will ever convince me to stop eating meat.

[1] http://www.postaudio.co.uk/education/acoustics/room_images/oblique.png

[2]J.M. Coetzee, Elizabeth Costello (New York: Penguin Books, 2003), 76.

[3] http://www.enchantedlearning.com/subjects/anatomy/digestive/color.GIF

[4]J.M. Coatzee, Elizabeth Costello (New York: Penguin Books, 2003), 90.

[5] Ibid., 62

[6]Coetzee Introduction, X736.

[7]J.M. Coatzee, Elizabeth Costello (New York: Penguin Books, 2003), 62.

[8]J.M. Coatzee, Elizabeth Costello (New York: Penguin Books, 2003), 61.

[9]http://whatscookingamerica.net/Beef/BeefPhotos/TBoneSteak3.jpg

[10]http://www.asby.com.sg/image/EGG.jpg

[11]Wendy Doniger, “Reflections,” The Lives of Animals (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1999), X749.

[12]Peter Singer, “Relfections,” The Lives of Animals (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1999), X743.

A Compassionate Carnivore?

2008-11-05T20:17:00.001-08:00

Lesson Plan 11/4

2008-11-03T22:14:00.000-08:00

Topics: Animal rights, extending the sympathetic imagination to animals

Main conflict: the cruelty of eating meat, regardless of how it was slaughtered.

Jenny: “It all comes down to pain and suffering…Pain and suffering are in themselves bad and should be prevented or minimized, irrespective of the race, sex, or species of the being that suffers.” (X729) My basic belief is this: no one (animal or human) should have to suffer at the hands of another.

Isn’t it our duty to give up a few luxuries, to become less selfish, in order to prolong all of the precious lives on this earth?
-why is it? do we have obligations to other species? perhaps to curb abuse but also to go so far as to eliminating a very natural part of our diet? not a rhetorical question, a topic to be debated

Samantha: While I would like to say that this movie instantly transformed me into a PETA activist and adamant vegetarian after seeing the gruesome processes by which our eating animals are slaughtered, I just love meat too much.
- is this not a contradiction and one that all meat-eaters must live with?

Ben:
One of the main problems that I had with the script was the argument about how “if we had to kill our own meat, we would all be vegetarian”[2]. If we all were forced to amputate our own legs, would there be no doctors, and everyone would then die? If we all had to manufacture auto parts, would there be no cars?

Also stating that we are all entitled to our own choices.

Skaggs:
I don’t mean to dismiss the idea of an alternative solution entirely, but my line of reasoning hits too many dead ends, and I can’t think of a practical and manageable solution myself.
-in the end we have to concern ourselves primarily with the advancement of our own species.

But no matter what you do, an animal that is to be slaughtered will suffer. I will not simply give up eating meat because other animals are suffering.
-the rub of ecosystems. should we start PETP (p for plants)? of course not.

Austyn: we have things to work on among our own species before we worry about animals.
Earthlings as propaganda.

Tyler:
I don’t think business owners particularly enjoy the fact that they inhumanely kill animals, but they certainly have no problem turning a blind eye if it nets them a greater profit.
-the epitome of human self-interest. how many of you are absolutely willing to go against this?

Pets as slaves?
-not sure how most feel about that....

Russell: "Even through sympathetic imagination, humans will never be able to fully understand a chicken's wants and needs."
-Russell should fight Dana.

Dana: Humans are undeniably animals
-but animals eat other animals.

Lydia would agree with Dana.

How ignorant are we really?

Skaggs, Ben, and Jenny seem aware.
-does ignorance and/or tolerance of abuses in slaughterhouses make a difference when it comes to eating meat, regardless of how the animal was treated?

Sympathetic imagination to pets: Jenny, Ben, Brian
-is it any more than the time we have spent growing up with them that makes us compassionate? Are there deeper connections? Other than those animals which we domesticate, should we have obligations to feel the same compassion for all animals?

Animals in Alice:

Jenny and Sammy both cite the lessons we have to learn from them.
-is it legitimate to use such an inane tale to advance our dependence on animals?

2008-11-03T13:32:00.000-08:00

I will always be an omnivore. Nothing is going to change that. But I squirm at the fact that, according to Shaun Monson, I am ignorant. Meat tastes really good, and I am aware of the general abuse that occurs in slaughterhouses. But I would never directly hurt an animal. To an animal rights activist, I just contradicted myself. To the overwhelming majority of the human population, I have said nothing wrong. Perhaps, “Ignorance is the speciesist’s first line of defense.”[1] That “ignorance” is testament to the power of such a state of mind. I am conscious of what goes on, and I agree with the statement that “Killing an animal is, in itself, a troubling act.”[2] My circular reasoning currently leads me to believe I am either in denial of my ignorance or disbelief at my lack of compassion.

My cat Pepper. We, in fact, adopted her as a stray because we knew she needed a home.

Assume for a second that it was a common American practice to eat cat. I would never touch one. After growing up for the past ten years with Pepper, I have formed a bond. But I could never make that some connection with another animal (i.e., a cow) without the elongated juxtaposition I have undergone with Pepper. In his book The Outermost House, Henry Beston writes, “We need another and a wiser and perhaps a more mystical concept of animals.”[3] In order to curb the abuses, this is indeed what needs to happen. But the only way to achieve such would be to force all meat-eaters to grow up as cattle-ranchers. As long as we are human, though, we have other responsibilities. Activists may refer to those as trivial, but I object that those activists have absolutely no business telling me what is trivial and what is not. It is up to each individual to decide for his or herself what matters most, to prioritize a list a conveniences and then choose what he or she wants to believe in. Monson argues that “We must learn empathy, we must learn to see into the eyes of an animal and feel that their life has value because they are alive.”[4] Monson’s ideal is nearly impossible to achieve on a massive scale. Without communication, it is simply not going to happen. And, in fact, we cannot communicate fluently with animals, no matter what some left-wing, nature lover will tell us.
[5]

No matter how much time I might spend around an animal, trying to “bond” with it, I will never reach a mutual sense of communication. That is indeed the rub.

People will always exist above animals. Our genetic capabilities afford us this, and so it is hard to attribute the same rights to animals that humans deserve. Donald McNeil points out that the conflict exists in “how much kinship humans feel for which animals, and just which ‘human rights’ each human deserves.”[6] At some point, the idea of “animal rights” becomes silly. Apes driving cars? That should not even be taken seriously enough to be written about. Perhaps it boils down to conceit.

In Alice, there is a key difference: those animals could talk. After seeing a talking, hurried, white rabbit, “it occurred to [Alice] that she ought to have wondered at this”[7]. I might wonder, too, should I befriend a cow, whether or not I should order steak next time.

[1]“Earthlings”, E603A Course Anthology, Shaun Monson, X729
[2]“Earthlings”, E603A Course Anthology, Shaun Monson, X707
[3]“Earthlings”, E603A Course Anthology, Shaun Monson, X703
[4]“Earthlings”, E603A Course Anthology, Shaun Monson, X706
[5]http://www.insidesocal.com/greenspirited/cow2.jpg
[6]"When Human Rights Extend to Nonhumans", E603A Course Anthology, Donald G. Mcneil Jr., X732
[7]Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland, Lewis Carroll, pg. 12

Alice (and Carroll) as Leaders

2008-10-29T16:41:00.000-07:00

We are all born into ignorance. Through the trials and tribulations of life, we hope to one day achieve understanding. It is the human condition.

Nowhere does da Vinci draw anything pertaining to what is inside.

And so there isn't much heroism in conquering that ubiquitous shortcoming. It can effectively be summed up in what we call "growing up." But Alice does do something unique, something heroic. She does it on her own.

Those flowers certainly aren't human.

Perhaps I view it as heroism only because of that fact. Honestly, I am a very shy person. I hate approaching new things, and I hate approaching them a lone. But Alice not only chooses to venture down the rabbit hole, she not only stands up to but conquers the question when it is posed to her, "Who are you?"[1] Wonderland exists not only as an escape from the ordinary but also as a probe of her individual. When placed into the most foreign of lands, she forges her perspectives through experience a lone. As she tries to grab some sort of handle on who she is, "she crossed her hands on her lap, as if she were saying lessons, and began to repeat it, but her voice sounded hoarse and strange, and the words dd not come the same as they used to." [2] Having lost her sight of even herself, she dives deeper into the depths of Wonderland to find out more. Her methodology is venerable, as Sharon Begley points out that "If you make enough weak measurements, the average comes impressively close to the actual value."[3] Alice does indeed make plenty of "weak measurements" by her own hand. Out of them, she amasses an average out of the extraordinary, deriving from her own experiences a form of reason. Much like the Greek philosophers of Antiquity that I have written about before, she learns through her own experiences "as opposed to listening to someone else." [4] Much as was the passion I wrote about in P's 1 and 2, Alice creates her own individual in a land full of nothing but wonder. I don't know that I can call it inspiration or bravery, but I can view it as an example of accomplishment, of conquering the uncertain. Two goals that I believe everyone should strive for.
I, for one, would not want to go down there. Perhaps it is everyones greatest fear: the unknown.

The topic of writers as heros then must come up if whom they create are to be viewed as such. Perhaps the word hero is too strong for a real world example, but the nomers role model and leader suit them perfectly. For the same reason that Alice is a hero, Carroll is a hero (a leader, at least). He created this vision of his through experience and shared it with us. His motivations and influences may be unbeknownst to us, but regardless, he crafts a lens through which we can see our own lives in the color of metaphor, guiding us with his insights and leading the way to higher understandings of that which surrounds us. Carroll, and all writers, paint for us visions of life that we not otherwise have, and for that, I look up to them. For I am no Alice, and I am afraid.

[1] Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland, Lewis Carroll, pg. 48
[2] Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland, Lewis Carroll, pg. 23
[3] "Putting Time in a (Leaky) Bottle" E603A Course Anthology, Sharon Begley, X690
[4] “How Alice Leads/Is a Hero”, E603A Course Anthology, Amber Berclath, X692A

2008-10-27T13:58:00.000-07:00

Better Together - Jack Johnson

Jack Johnson asks the questions that I have begun asking myself because of this class: "Why are we here? And where do we go? And how come it's so hard?"[1]

Last week, we discussed what I desperately wanted to boil down to the interminable struggle of ignorance versus enlightenment. It is a favorite topic of mine--one that I have written many papers about. Specifically, I want to reference the maxim, "It is better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all." I think that is how it traditionally goes, but I remember it with a slight syntactical change and a difference of end punctuation: "Is it better to have loved and lost or never to have loved at all?"

The sport of rowing reflects the benefits of an absolute ignorance:

I have written several papers on the subject throughout my high school English career, and my conclusions remain immutable. Either absolute enlightenment or absolute ignorance is ideal, but mankind possesses the capacity for neither.

Life as a rock: always with a smile

So, then, it seems as though I approach the subject of compassion versus survival of the fittest with a rather cynical paradigm. But, given that I am human and thus strewn into the agonizing pathos of our yearningly compassionate nature, I try my best to find that middle ground, flying in between the extremes in a way that Icarus could not.

It is no wonder why Ovid's works are indeed epic:
his messages are eternal

I would like to disagree with Dana and echo Saumya: it takes both compassion and self-interest to succeed. My proof--my high school class.

We wore white-tuxes instead of gowns.
Yeah, it is pretentious, but I will always be indebted to those who sat with me.

75 other boys walked across the stage with me last May. Exactly one third of those are attending Ivy League schools, a second third to similarly selective schools: Duke, Stanford, Northwestern, Notre Dame, and Georgetown. We had 23 National Merit Scholars. I am absolutely NOT trying to brag by saying "Oh yeah, well my high school was smarter than yours!" I do think that those statistics say something about the learning environment that exists at that school, but they also reflect the pomp and pretention that is rife within its walls. For the sake of discussion, please only focus on the former.

Anyway, my point is that there is a reason that some parents are willing to fork out exorbitant amounts of money for private school education (I, for one, think I would have thrived more in a public school setting, but I cannot deny the positive impact of the private sector). The reason: we 75 learned together. No one was left behind because of competition. Sometimes, groups of fifteen to twenty of us would collaborate on a single lab report, math problem, or reading assignment. We learned from great teachers, but we learned infinitely more from each other. I would not have made as high a grade in sophomore year Modern World History if not for my best academic friend Dhruv. More than that, I would not be the writer that I am without him, as I perpetually strive to mimick his trancedent eloquence. It is because of that environment that private schools are often excellent alternatives to public ones. We all looked out for each other, and those who witheld information, opinions, or insights were shunned. While we were all self-motivated and independent hard-workers, compassion fostered the harmony of our collective intelligence.

I feel as though Jude comes close to this ideal: "My God, how selfish I was! Perhaps--perhaps I spoilt one of the highest and purest loves that ever existed between man and woman!"[2] Jude takes it too far though. He focuses far too much on the idea of selflessness that he forgets to look out for himself. His obsession with Sue is impossible, and I refuse to believe that Hardy wants us to think that intrinsically, Jude does not realize this. And so, Jude's struggle is one of excessive compassion, or compassion in the wrong form, at least. Sue sits too far on the other side of the fulcrum: "Remember that the best and greatest among mankind are those who do themselves no worldly good. Every successful man is more or less a selfish man. The devoted fail...."[3] Indeed, successful men are selfish, but only to an extent. I am a man of absolutes, and I despise taking the middle ground. But the ultimate plight of the human condition requires that we do so.

[1] Johnson, Jack. "Better Together." In Between Dreams. 2005.

[2] Thomas Hardy, Jude the Obscure (New York: W.W. Norton & Company, 1999), 278

[3] Hardy, 284

I had it figured out

2008-10-22T18:48:00.000-07:00

I am the typical teenager. I have received a baseline high school education and have enough experience to take care of myself. I pretty much have it all figured out. Right, Mom?

I could've smoked a pack a day!

It obviously doesn't quite work that way. But if there's one thing that I had figured out, it was what my high school counselors would refer to as "The College Process." I knew what I wanted. I didn't even visit schools. I went to Philadelphia once and checked out about eight different campuses while I was there, but that was a waste of time and money, albeit one my parents brought on themselves. You see, my brother is two years older than me and had already gone through the entire process. His objectivity and realism and borderline apathy carved out two years early the entire process for me. Along with my dad's sage advice (he is, in fact, the most down to earth being I have ever come across), I realized that in the end, it would not really matter where I go. "College is college," he would tell me. On that same note, he fully supported what I ever wanted to do, but I did not ever find a reason to put much stock into more than those three words. I wanted “the perfect place for contemplation” as well as a “protective environment within which to indulge” and nothing more (X638). I knew I could fulfill those ideals at almost any university in the country, so to be honest, I focused almost exclusively on three things: reputation, cost, and the attractiveness of the female contingency. In my mind, those were the only three criteria that I could use to discern one college from another. I was mailed at least six trees worth of literature in the form of college brochures, and they all said the same thing and had the same picture of a black, female political science major on the first page. Much like Jude Fawley, I "was an earnest and studious youth who is inspired by the example of the village school-teacher to set his heart on a place at Christminster” (X638). I could find an education anywhere, so why make that big of a deal out of it?

Well, she isn't exactly black, and this is a postgraduate brochure.
But that's the point: its dumb.

In the end I wasted a lot of time applying to way too many schools. I earned a spot on seven waitlists, was rejected at four schools, and accepted into three. So I didn't have the most successful application process, but I didn't care. I had finally heard back from the last of those schools on March 31 at exactly 4:00 p.m., and my deposit at UT was paid by 4:15.

Maybe I got lucky. Maybe its just that Plan II is that much cooler than advertised. Maybe I'm intrinsically miserable and that acid I dropped on my way down here was some good shit...oh wait... I don't do drugs... But I am happy here, and as far as I can tell, I am quite a bit happier than all of my friends at different universities. In a Jude-esque manner, I didn't quite have much success in the college process. For the minutes that existed between 4:00 and 4:o5 on that fateful last day in March, the year of our Lord two-thousand and eight, I sulked "with the awful sense" that I had "wholly disgraced" myself (Hardy 15). But that feeling of impotence, un-accomplishment, and disappointment was brief. In an anti-Jude-esque manner, I did have much success in the college process. I ended up here. Fuck Notre Dame, and I didn't even apply.

http://sports.espn.go.com/ncf/rankingsindex

The Leadership of Individuality

2008-10-15T23:56:00.000-07:00

Where Is My Mind - The Pixies

The Pixies chant in the background, “With your feet on the air and your head on the ground….” The first building explodes, “…Try this trick, and spin it, yeah….” With a bellow like thunder, a second tumbles. “…Your head will collapse, but there’s nothing in it….” The remaining buildings quiver with the inanimate fear imposed on them by the viewer. “…And you’ll ask yourself, where is my mind?” Guitar riffs wail as the camera pans out, and Edward Norton’s nameless character clasps the hand of his new love, creating for himself the sublime ending to his forged conquest of the mundane. Like the buildings he watches crumble, he razes mediocrity in realization of the importance of identity. His mind, for the first time, drops anchor, creating his self between his ears, in perfect harmony with the apocalypse he harbors.

Norton's pilgrimage is that of meaning and identity.

The purpose of fight club is, as Tyler Durden puts it, because “We have no Great War. No Great Depression. Our Great War’s a spiritual war. Our Great Depression is our lives.” Edward Norton’s internal struggle stems from his lack of substance, his perpetuation of mediocrity, and obsessive materialism. He creates Tyler Durden as a representation of his ideals, and begins fight club to constantly combat the demons that he faces in realizing his failure as an individual. His victory over his idealism shows his maturation as a person and his defining of character. Edward Norton does not find himself in Fight Club; he creates himself. When faced with nothing spectacular, nothing but the pedestrian devils of the proletariat, he spawns greatness.

But what is the greatness that I see in it? I wrote about my passion for individuality in my previous project, and Edward Norton represents the consummate example of one who rejects the societal standard. With a feral indifference to those who govern him (i.e., his boss), he seeks out and achieves the creation of his individual. For this reason, Edward Norton is one of the few fictional characters that I will ever view as a hero. He suffers from no crippling memories of his past and has no physical obstacle that he must overcome—his plight is humanness. With no traumatic event or divine inspiration in his life to point him in a direction of purpose or pursuit of a passion, he undergoes the most powerful of metamorphoses and one that I view as the perfect manifestation of the purposes and core values of this literature course. I feel like I have experienced little trauma or revelation in the same way that Edward Norton had, and thus I view so much of life through the lens of soccer, as the sport had so much of an affect on my perspective on life, outside of kicking a ball around.

I have played on four different teams since I was ten years old, and from my differing experiences on all of them, I amassed my insights and perspectives. The greatest of which derived from the different personalities of each coach. From 7th to 9th grade, I played for a team called the Dallas Comets. We were a nationally ranked team, consistently competitive in the largest scale tournaments, in large part due to our coach. His name was Horst Bertl. His resume inspired awe—a former member of the German national team and several teams in the Bundesliga, Germany’s elite professional soccer league. His voice was hoarse, his accent as thick as his beard. His swollen belly protruded from under his shirt, as his passion for soccer was matched only by a fondness of beer. During games and practices, praise played sidekick to the villain of Horst’s spiteful yelling. Negative feedback existed as my sole motivator, and I did not thrive in that setting. I live for the pat on the back, and Horst reserved those for only the truly remarkable. And so, I played in constant fear. I possessed not a modicum of confidence in myself because, as it seemed, neither did Horst. My play style became passive: I shied away from the ball because I was terrified of losing it. Having the ball at my feet, I could see Horst—I could feel him—sitting in his blind, cross-hairs lined up perfectly over my cowering face, ready to murder what little faith I had left in myself. I no longer played to my strengths, and I slowly became the vision that Horst laid out for me: a one-trick role-player who was put on the field not to screw up. After my freshman year of high school, I had to change teams. I no longer played soccer for myself—I was playing to satisfy Horst.

He was indeed a good coach, just not for me.

Entering into my sophomore year, I was playing for two new coaches: my high school coach Cory and my new club’s coach Jason. Neither promised the same expertise that Horst did, but they proffered something far more valuable—confidence in my abilities as a player. Instantly, they transformed me. They offered no new instruction or insight to the game, but I could once again play. The summer between my 9th and 10th grade years purged me like a sauna. A ravenous bloodthirst for the ball at my feet characterized my new playing style. I was still prone to the same mistakes, but Jason and Cory would offer a pick-me-up: “Shake it off! Get your head in the game,” and I could. Because of their belief in me, I could once again play the game the only way I knew—as myself. My individuality was back, and thus my passion was back. I chased down opponents with a reckless disposition, I demanded the ball at my feet, and much as my long, red hair would denote, flowing and crackling chaotically as I played, the fire was back.

Coaches like Cory and Jason are heroes to me. They instilled their leadership vision in their teams and believed in their players. Because of that leadership, they allowed me to fulfill my greatest passion: they let me be myself on the field. It is funny, then, to analyze how I acted off the field. Under Horst, I was the quiet member of the team who hardly ever talked and followed. Under Cory and Jason, I became the team loud-mouth, constantly cracking jokes and conversing with my teammates, but most importantly, I lead. As the formation of my character continues, I see now the importance of Cory and Jason’s impact on me. My role as a leader is growing, and their visions have become mine. Robert J. Lee writes, “Your leadership vision must fit with your personal vision; it emerges from it and helps make your personal vision happen” (X79). My personal vision is to continually uphold my greatest passion—that of individuality and my unique self. Emerging from that now is my leadership vision: to inspire those around me in the same way that Jason and Cory inspired me. I can lead others by not doubting them—by believing in what they can do. My experiences through soccer have been emblazoned on my character in such a way that I believe I can pass this torch of leadership onto the next generation. This connection, between my passions of soccer and identity and their leadership vision, parallels Lee’s thoughts on the subject, “Within the larger story of your life, then, your view of yourself as a leader emerges” (X81). But it is not just the narrative of my career as a soccer player that directs my leadership vision. I would like to look back at Edward Norton’s character in Fight Club once again. He does not just create for himself an identity. He spreads his vision through the creation of fight club, providing an escape for the rest people suffering from the same injustices of mediocrity and boredom. His role as a leader is even further developed than Jason or Cory’s ever could be, as he fosters the chaotic sojourn from pedestrian to individual for thousands of other men. He does not simply believe in the men whom he fights, he shows them how to believe in themselves and to create themselves. That is the ultimate goal of my vision—to provide an avenue for others (although in a less extreme way) like Edward’s fight club. The interlocking gears of society are assembled by this paradigm—that six billion people, each with a voice, can grind in perfect harmony. My passion is indeed vague, but its leadership vision is explicit. When a community can grow together because of the distinct expression of each of its parts, and when a leader can inspire all to sing in their truest voices, greatness can be achieved.

My leadership vision does not extend only to extracurricular activities. Its relevance to the Plan II curriculum, and more specifically the role of this class, is striking. Perhaps the most unique aspect of the Plan II program is its conduciveness to academic freedom. But this freedom can only be beneficial if the professors of the broad range of required subjects can instill a sense of confidence in their students. Plan II is "education without boundaries," but without leaders who can inspire, boundaries can exist like an impermeable skull around the flowering mind. Particularly in this world literature course, compassion is a foundation of our learning, and compassion fosters a leader's ability to believe in his subjects. Without compassion, without leaders who can advance this vision, the freedom of the mind is stifled, and the purpose of this program is forgotten.

2008-10-13T17:37:00.000-07:00

I have never actively attributed the title “hero” or “role model” to anyone. Unconsciously, heroes and role models have existed in my life, but their influences were passive, if not subtle. I am of the disposition that every instance, acquaintance, conversation, and relationship of my life has shaped me for the better or the worse in one way or another. When I had to write an essay about my hero for a 5th grade private school entry examination, I forced myself to write about Rusty Greer, the oft-sprawled, diving left-fielder for the then competitive Texas Rangers.

He saved many an out for the object of my youthful idolatry: The Texas Rangers

I could think of no one else whom I looked up to except for the red-headed, left-handed, butt-chinned, country-accented middle-of-the-lineup hitter. In all honesty, if not for the matching hair-color, I would have no reason to deem ol’ Rusty any more associable than the rest of the Rangers’ roster. And thus, my first conception of a hero spawned from the necessitation of words, any words, from an essay topic that rendered me taciturn. Devoid of profundity and lacking any notion other than overt superficiality, I clung to Rusty for the majority of my growing up.

The greatest hero of my high school: Ms. Sutcliffe

Now, at the experienced yet entirely sophomoric age of 18, I have an absolute definition of what a hero is to me, and one that will never change. My heroes are those who inspire me to be me. That is, after all, according to my P1, my greatest passion. But from my hero’s and role model’s perspective, it takes confidence and conviction to foster this passion. For that reason, I turn to Margaret Cousins, who nails what it is that we both believe, “In the heat and struggle and exhilaration of forging a life, I Found that their [my professor’s] names and faces, their words and precepts, their values and standards recurred to me consistently…more often than the names and faces of rosy girls with whom I had shared my hopes and dreams and sworn eternal friendship in presumably binding ceremonies” (X947). Ultimately, teachers, mentors, and professors are no more than catalysts. They cannot create, they can only inspire. What it is their job then, is to show the less obvious side of reality, to demonstrate what Robert Frost would call “the road less traveled.” I can tell you now who I will view as the most significant influences on me at this university—the professors. Some less than others, but they will all be my role models and my heroes. As Ms. Cousins writes, “Against formidable odds…they taught me how to think” (X947). That is what heroes do, above all elese.
In my inevitably linked soccer career, I saw both sides of a positive and a negative role model. For three years I played for one of the top ranked teams in the nation. At the same time, I played for a coach that didn’t believe in me, and despite the competition I was facing, I was not rapidly declining as a player. So, after three miserable years with a bitter old man as a coach, I found a new team, and this happened to coincide with my first year on my high school’s soccer team. Both of my new teams’ had coaches that believed in me. I was playing at a slightly less competitive level, but I was playing better. This transition revived my career as a player as I was now achieving more of my potential. Eventually, my interest in the sport waned, but I came to a fuller understanding of what is my definition of a hero—one that inspires a belief in myself. Alan Bean would agree with me, “When I did begin to put out effort I did really well. That was a big eye-opener. Then I began to put out more effort and do more, and maybe that’s the story of my life, because now I realize that you can do what you want” (X977). It is the most tired maxim in the world, but it is so for a reason. Potential is a funny thing and broods the “what ifs” that defile and corrupt our hindsight as we view our current successes as a reflection of our past efforts. With heroes that believe in you, the question is never raised.

Passions of Individuality

2008-09-22T18:38:00.000-07:00

I cannot sit here and exclaim to this page that I am passionate about any selfless cause or benevolent organization. I cannot write that I give any more of a thought to the welfare of a suffering people in a remote place than the turtles in the pond that I watch give to me. Passion connotes a grave, often empathetic emotion, so please do not deem me crass yet. When I launch Firefox and the New York Times website pops up as my homepage, the stories of terrorism, abuse, and injustice evoke sympathetic emotions from me, but those emotions can only be characterized by a capricious levity that soon escape me as I continue my browsing. So the task of writing about my greatest passions is immediately a difficult one. The more I confronted the topic, however, the more my vision of passion was corrected. What I feel most passionate about spawned the roots of my struggle—myself. I am not any more narcissistic or conceited than we are all genetically engineered to be, so it is not a passion of selfishness.

Evolution occured only because of this fact that we must indeed concern ourselves with primarily ourselves

Rather, it is a passion of individuality and the unique self—my unique self. But this idea, this passion, in order to connect to something greater than myself, is tied with another—a passion for doing my best. I feel strongly about these ideas, so much so that I say am passionate about them, and I think they are the basis of what creates more than just a purely biological ecosystem of humans—they create human society.

When I first thought of my passions I thought of soccer. It is the one sport, the one activity, the one culture that I am inextricably a part of, and it is a part of me. But how does a game connect to something greater than what I can make of it?

In all honesty, soccer, along with all sports, is a rather mundane activity

In many ways, it connects to nothing bigger, except to the many non-Americans of this world who contrive to make it everything. I think professional sports lack substance and too many people derive meaning from them. I think ESPN is silly. But I think that my playing soccer allowed me to connect to something bigger, and the same goes for all who play any sport competitively. Soccer allowed me to be a part of a team that is a microcosm of society (several teams, actually, but the concept is of the whole, not of its parts). Players are sorted into positions not based on arbitrary or hierarchal reasons but because each player brings a unique skill-set to the team as a whole—each player is an individual. Defenders should not act like forwards, nor should midfielders tend goal. A coach is the entity that brings these aspects together, to foster individuality for the sake of the whole. It is the coach’s leadership vision that produces this greater team out of all the players that act as they must—as individuals.

It sounds ironic to use a sports analogy to promote individualism, as the concept of “team” connotes the idea of community and networking. But at its base, this concept is driven by the absolute principle that we can only be ourselves. Why would a forward ever want to act like a goalie though? More broadly, why would anyone want to be another? Extending this analogy further, out of the athletic realm and into the social one, I think it becomes clear. Society revolves heavily around image and far too much on emulation. Those who are not popular often try to act like those who are. This classification is entirely arbitrary, yet many deem it gospel, and it is a bastardization of what society is based upon. Individualism is what makes us human. In essence, I see it as the primary manifestation of enlightenment. How can two turtles be differentiated without regard to physical attributes? Genetically, we are 99.5% the same as a banana. The remaining .5% of the genome accounts for the less than subtle physical difference, but it is our individuality that provides us with that “human” element, that enlightenment. Thus it is our responsibility to the rest of mankind to be unique. Without variability, we have only one sum that is perfectly divisible by all of its parts. With it, we create a much different whole that is far greater than such a sum. It is not so much an option to be unique as it is an obligation. As the UT crest states, “Cultivated mind is the guardian genius of democracy” (X305). Individuality, as much as education, is the cultivator.

For those reasons, I try to be myself, as tired an aphorism it may be, but I consider it a passion for different reasons. I strive to do the best that I can in all schools of life—athletic, academic, social, moral—and that drive is closely related to my desire to be myself. I am heavily driven by success, not so much to call it a passion of mine to succeed but at least one to present the best that I have. Bob Dylan said it best, “All I can do is be me, whoever that is.” I continually struggle to find out who I am, what my dreams are, what my pilgrimage is.

Inevitably, the pilgrimage always takes this shape:

To be honest, I am yet to find a more tangible cause that I feel strongly about other than the cause of the self, but in this uncertainty I find the validation of my quest as a passion in itself. I am not impervious to outside influences, no one is. But I exalt in the fact that I do not let those influences redirect me without a genuine consideration of my own. I let these factors change who I am in ways that I want them to. Whether for good or for bad, I am myself. As with a soccer team, my individuality connects me to things greater than myself. Society and the existence of humankind as a dominant species is based upon individuality and by contributing exactly what makes me unique to others, I contribute to the greater purpose—the whole. More and more, my reflections on this passion and the ideas of unity and university bring me back to the efforts of the ancient Greeks.

I used this same picture in a previous blog entry, but it represents the same idea. The remains of the Lyceum are far more than rubble:

Given nothing, they formed everything: science as a whole can be traced back to them. This discovery is due to the fact that men such as Aristotle, Thales, and Plato observed life and drew conclusions that no one had before. I do not admire these men because they possessed a brilliant understanding of what is now known as science—they were egregiously misguided regarding many subjects—but because they formed these conclusions independent of the beliefs of others. The ancient contributions of these men were useless by themselves but invaluable in society. These legitimate, genuine, whole-hearted observations, conclusions, and opinions led to further understanding and further questioning. Each gave his own spin, each played his own position until team society eventually hammered into unity the sciences.

A particular scene in the movie Garden State comes to mind when I think of individuality.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=WNnyNbYVm0g

It involves Natalie Portman making an awkward noise accompanied with an even more awkward dance. She does because it makes her feel completely unique, because she knows that no one has ever done that exact dance and made that exact noise in that exact spot ever before. One of the main messages that the movie conveys, as is pertinent to this topic, is to be yourself. In that scene, we see the natural bliss of being completely original sometimes and thus the importance of a collective individuality. Josh Campbell writes, “Follow your bliss” (X71). I follow my bliss, and my bliss births forth from the knowledge that I have done something unique and of my own accord—that I have done something me. And thus I will follow it. Further, leadership at its base is about bringing out the best in those whom you lead. I cannot think of a more beneficial leadership vision than one that inspires us to be ourselves. For, in the end, that is all we can be.

The Greeks had it down

2008-09-17T00:56:00.000-07:00

In the survey that I filled out for Bump in the middle of the summer, I wrote that the reason I wanted to go to college was because I did not know what else to do. At the time, I think that was a correct answer, or at least as correct as an answer to that question could have been. Now that I am here, however, I realize why it is that I am: I want to be an intellectual, educated being. The purpose of a university is, after all, to make those. But the more important question that needs to be asked is how a university accomplishes that, more specifically, how this university accomplishes that, and even more, how this major accomplishes that. Even further, this question lurks: what is an intellectual, educated being?

Not everyone is born one:

According to John Henry Newman, “all branches of knowledge are connected together, because the subject-matter of knowledge is intimately united in itself” (X308). Knowledge is the lynchpin in this process of education, but it is not an end, as Newman later discusses. The reason why I am in Plan II is because of this fact (actually, the reason is probably because I didn’t get into Stanford). The idea of education is not absolute knowledge but knowledge combined with a limitless creativity, an inspiration for critical thinking, analysis, and synthesis, and a desire to understand and not necessarily know. I cannot think of a more tailor-made curriculum and structure for this purpose than that which has been prescribed for us. Real education is that which provides us with the ability to form our own opinions and make our own decisions not from scratch but from a well of thought that is inevitably hammered into us as we bear the rigors of our schooling. How often do we say something along the lines of “Forget this. When am I ever going to need to know this?” when we become frustrated with our studies? A lot. But that is, paradoxically, the point. We learn these seemingly time-consuming facts and write papers and solve equations not so that we can memorize our answers and conclusions, but so we can have practice at the art of forcing ourselves to think about things that are foreign to us. Bump’s theory of “discovery learning” is exactly that, “Active learning supports the belief that knowledge can be constructed by you rather than received from a higher authority” (X343D). We learn so that we can grasp. Newman’s statement that, “The eye of the mind, of which the object is truth, is the work of discipline and habit” (X312) goes hand-in-hand with Bump’s theory. The fact that F=MA isn’t going to help us push a heavy rock up a steep hill, but a background in engineering and overall critical thinking and problem solving will.

Pure knowledge leads to a mere Sisyphian struggle:

I remember almost nothing from my 9th-11th grade history classes spanning from the period of ancient civilizations to the end of the Cold War, but the “work of discipline and habit” is enough for me to be able to grasp as a big picture the course of history, the development of civilization, and the reflections of the present onto the past, or vice-versa. Despite what the “Origin of University” says, the first universities were indeed Plato’s Academy, Aristotle’s Lyceum, and Epicurus’ Garden.

The remains of The Lyceum are far more than what is physically left:

The article states that the Academy, “taught its students philosophy, mathematics, and gymnastics” (X341). But that is far from what made these original schools of Greek thought special. As I have been thinking about the origins of science in Dr. Weinberg’s Modes of Reasoning class, I am beginning to understand what it really means to be an intellectual. The original philosophers and their students alike had no books to teach them about physics or math. They had only their minds, and in the present’s technological splendor, we owe everything to them. The original scientists were called philosophers rather than scientists because science did not exist. As the course description implies, they invented it. Let me write that again: they invented science. Talk about right brain-ness. Honestly, did the left side even exist back then? I doubt it, and I am thankful. Who cares that many of Aristotle’s theories and ideas were terribly wrong, he came up with them from nothing but his own observations. In the present, we are responsible for this same kind of thought process, but we already have the gift of previous knowledge. Through a university, “A habit of mind is formed which lasts through life, of which the attributes are,[sic] freedom, equitableness, calmness, moderation, and wisdom” (X309). The desire for this habit is what drives me in my quest to be educated.

As the words on the UT crest translate, “Cultivated mind is the guardian genius of democracy” (X305).

It is our responsibility, more than anything else, not to memorize formulas and dates and equations, but to employ the curiosity that originally engaged our desire for this knowledge in new, creative, and abstract ways. Our individual and daily encounters in the classroom and our studies build the left-side of our brains, but it is the journey and quest for that knowledge that fosters the right.

Although it may have been cool to say that I got in to Stanford, the words “I am in Plan II” resound. At least in mine.

Alice in Wonderland, in hindsight.

2008-09-14T18:37:00.000-07:00

Let me start by saying that I am not a theater person. My ability to discern between good and bad acting is non-existent. That being said, my infantile reactions to the play as a whole, not unlike Alice's reactions to the ridiculous nature of Wonderland, will be genuine and unbiased, if not credible. Here goes:

I have not read or seen or thought about Alice in Wonderland since I first watched the Disney version of it no less than twelve years ago. My knowledge of the plot is lacking, and so I was confused at times as to exactly what was happening. I do not think that is a fault of the production however, any more than it is of the convolutions of reality that the story calls for. Nonetheless, the show left me rife with glee and a childlike satisfaction with something that I did not fully understand. I think a large part of this entertainment was due to the actress that played Alice. Her performance did not grasp me in anyway, but I think she played the role exactly how it was meant. Alice was annoying and beautifully ignorant. What more could be asked of her? I don’t know, honestly. Her first acquaintance in the play, the Rabbit, was not as good. His constant panic was annoying when, unlike for the role of Alice, it was not called for. He was overly jumpy and not a very good singer.

Other things that I liked:

The Mad Hatter—what a pimp. I see now why Bump wears that thing (potential Halloween costume, anyone?). Beyond that infatuation with him, the actor was very good. His eerie voice fit the role very well, and he had one of the better singing voices.

The Cheshire Cat—I think she played her role the best. Her grin, even without makeup, was entirely too creepy. This character, from what I remember of the plot, is supposed to be the most mysterious of a group characterized by mystery, and the actress left me wondering. She had the best voice in the show, as well.

The Caterpillar—her makeup was incredible, her accent—very fitting (during the speaking parts at least). And she has obviously been to a lot of hookah bars.

The Play (or musical?) as a whole—much like Austyn talked about, I don’t think you can really put on a bad show of Alice in Wonderland. It is far too colorful a story to have left me unsatisfied. Talk about right brain work at its best—Lewis Carroll is awesome. Especially considering the topic of our last discussion board, this was the perfect time to see this. I feel comforted, almost, and inspired by Alice’s journey to find her place as I (we) try to find mine (ours).

Lyrics of the Freshman Condition

2008-09-10T16:00:00.000-07:00

Nostalgia: “While My Guitar Gently Weeps” by The Beatles:

I look at you all see the love there that's sleeping
While my guitar gently weeps
I look at the floor and I see it need sweeping
Still my guitar gently weeps

I don't know why nobody told you
how to unfold you love
I don't know how someone controlled you
they bought and sold you

I look at the world and I notice it's turning
While my guitar gently weeps
With every mistake we must surely be learning
Still my guitar gently weeps

I don't know how you were diverted
you were perverted too
I don't know how you were inverted
no one alerted you

I look at you all see the love there that's sleeping
While my guitar gently weeps
I look at you all
Still my guitar gently weeps

Oh, oh, oh
oh oh oh oh oh oh oh
oh oh, oh oh, oh oh
Yeah yeah yeah yeah
yeah yeah yeah yeah

“Sooner or Later” by Michael Tolcher:

I look at you all see the love there that's sleeping
While my guitar gently weeps
I look at the floor and I see it need sweeping
Still my guitar gently weeps

I don't know why nobody told you
how to unfold you love
I don't know how someone controlled you
they bought and sold you

I look at the world and I notice it's turning
While my guitar gently weeps
With every mistake we must surely be learning
Still my guitar gently weeps

I don't know how you were diverted
you were perverted too
I don't know how you were inverted
no one alerted you

I look at you all see the love there that's sleeping
While my guitar gently weeps
I look at you all
Still my guitar gently weeps

Oh, oh, oh
oh oh oh oh oh oh oh
oh oh, oh oh, oh oh
Yeah yeah yeah yeah
yeah yeah yeah yeah

Exile: “Scar Tissue” by The Red Hot Chili Peppers:

Scar tissue that I wish you saw
Sarcastic mister know it all
Close your eyes and I’ll kiss you ’cause
With the birds I’ll share
With the birds I’ll share
This lonely view
With the birds I’ll share
This lonely view

Push me up against the wall
Young Kentucky girl in a push-up bra
Fallin’ all over myself
To lick your heart and taste your health ’cause
With the birds I’ll share
This lonely view...

Blood loss in a bathroom stall
Southern girl with a scarlet drawl
Wave good-bye to ma and pa ’cause
With the birds I’ll share
With the birds I’ll share
This lonely view
With the birds I’ll share
This lonely view

Soft spoken with a broken jaw
Step outside but not to brawl
Autumn’s sweet we call it fall
I’ll make it to the moon if I have to crawl and
With the birds I’ll share
This lonely view...

Scar tissue that I wish you saw
Sarcastic mister know it all
Close your eyes and I’ll kiss you ’cause
With the birds I’ll share
With the birds I’ll share
This lonely view
With the birds I’ll share
This lonely view...

Loss: “Nothing Lasts Forever” by Maroon 5:

It is so easy to see
Dysfunction between you and me
We must free up these tired souls
Before the sadness kills us both

I tried and tried to let you know
I love you but I'm letting go
It may not last but I don't know
Just don't know

If you don't know
Then you can't care
And you show up
But you're not there
But I'm waiting
And you want to
Still afraid that I will desert you

Everyday
With every worthless word we get more far away
The distance between us makes it so hard to stay
But nothing lasts forever, but be honest babe
It hurts but it may be the only way

A bed that's warm with memories
Can heal us temporarily
The misbehaving only makes
The ditch between us so damn deep

Built a wall around my heart
I’ll never let it fall apart
But strangely I wish secretly
It would fall down while I'm asleep

If you don't know
Then you can't care
And you show up
But you're not there
But I'm waiting
And you want to
Still afraid that I will desert you, babe

Everyday
With every worthless word we get more far away
The distance between us makes it so hard to stay
But nothing lasts forever, but be honest babe
It hurts but it may be the only way

Tough we have not hit the ground
It doesn't mean we're not still falling,
Oh I want so bad to pick you up
But you're still too reluctant to accept my help
What a shame, I hope you find somewhere to place the blame
But until then the fact remains

Everyday
With every worthless word we get more far away
The distance between us makes you so hard to stay
Nothing lasts forever, but be honest babe
It hurts but it may be the only way

Everyday
With every worthless word we get more far away
The distance between us makes it so hard to stay
But nothing lasts forever, but be honest babe
It hurts but it may be the only way

Time: “First Day of My Life” by Bright Eyes:

This is the first day of my life
I swear I was born right in the doorway
I went out in the rain suddenly everything changed
They're spreading blankets on the beach

Yours is the first face that I saw
I think I was blind before I met you
Now I don’t know where I am
I don’t know where I’ve been
But I know where I want to go

And so I thought I’d let you know
That these things take forever
I especially am slow
But I realize that I need you
And I wondered if I could come home

Remember the time you drove all night
Just to meet me in the morning
And I thought it was strange you said everything changed
You felt as if you'd just woke up
And you said “this is the first day of my life
I’m glad I didn’t die before I met you
But now I don’t care I could go anywhere with you
And I’d probably be happy”

So if you want to be with me
With these things there’s no telling
We just have to wait and see
But I’d rather be working for a paycheck
Than waiting to win the lottery
Besides maybe this time is different
I mean I really think you like me

I am going to write a screenplay.

2008-09-02T23:51:00.000-07:00

“Want to get ahead today? Forget what your parents told you. Instead, do something foreigners can’t do cheaper. Something computers can’t do faster. And something that fills one of the nonmaterial, transcendent desires of an abundant age” (Daniel H. Pink, pg X331).

Ever since I saw Superbad, I have remained convinced that I could write a successful screenplay. Nothing in the movie shocked me. I come from an all-boy high school—school life existed devoid of the inhibiting factor that is estrogen. More than anything else though, Superbad afforded me the opportunity to be my own third party perspective—to see on screen what my high school life was like. I won’t call it a profound sense of humor because that is not what I think I possess—more like an absolute degradation and defilement of what most would deem appropriate, and thus something that entertains when turned into film. Upon venturing into this realm of right brain versus left, the roots of my interest in the realm of filmmaking and screenplay writing grow deeper indeed.

My dad and I have conversed often about what I want to do after school, about what kind of career I would be interested in. I have no idea. He tells me I could be good at the practice of law. I have very little knowledge of what the “practice of law” entails, nor do I have a shred of interest in learning of the subject currently. He then tells me I am not allowed to live at home once I graduate from college. I have an interest in law.

The Scales of Justice: where is the fun in this picture?

Facetiousness aside, I could see myself attending law school and practicing it at some point in the future. Despite whatever level of enjoyment I could squeeze from so pragmatic a profession, where is the fun or the excitement or the adventure in reciting over and over again, “I am a lawyer.” A history teacher of mine from 11th grade once announced to our class, “Do what you love. Screw the rest.” Intrinsically paradigmatic with a lot of American society, this aphorism is the cause of my hesitance when the question is begged, “What are your ideas for a potential career?” These are the times when I think about that screenplay.

I have some great ideas for what I would put in it. As Covey writes, “your powerful right brain capacity can be a great help to you on a daily basis as you work to integrate your personal mission statement into your life. It’s another application of begin with the end in mind (132).” Fragments upon fragments of scenes, character exchanges, monologues, and plot lines appear in my head on a daily basis. The right side of my brain has envisioned enough of these fragments to write a film in its entirety. At some point I am going to have to do some left-brain work and put these bastards together. The end is indeed in mind, but the process is nowhere to be found.

After watching “Web 2.0,” I am inclined to think that a computer can help me put together my scenes (after I write them, of course). But even then, it is not that easy. I have a serious gripe with the makers of that video. It is sensationalist and attempts to promote a possibility that is still years down the line. Outside of communication and entertainment, computers and the web as a whole are nowhere near fully integrated, half-human robots that play catchy, new age beats in the background.

"Web 2.0" reminds me of this song:

The Humans are Dead - Flight of the Conchords

Stephen Ehrmann says, “When [electronic] portfolios are used in [a helpful] way, the doorway to rapid, intentional evolution of liberal education opens” (328A). Does this “rapid evolution” mean that the left-brain tasks are going to be supplemented by computers? Exactly, so where is my screenplay? I need to get to Habit 3 first.